Warcraft 1. Manadawn Estate

Special thanks to:

_Travis - whose scepticism pricked me into taking up writing in the first place;_

_And Scott - whose constant support spurred me on to pushing forwards when my brain refused to work =)_

Timeline: During _Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos_

**Chapter 1: Manadawn Estate**

"Rokir! Blast, Rokir, where have you gotten to now?"

Lucethious looked about his chambers, lips pursed and frowning. Having just awoken, he was expecting his steward, Rokir, to be prompt with any morning deliveries. He did not expect breakfast - as an accomplished magister from Dalaran, Lucethious was more than capable of preparing his own meals. Besides, he frowned upon such manual labor; while he was a noble, Lucethious saw that as little more than a title. He allowed himself trivial luxuries, such as having Rokir bring him the mail in the morning, or having some handmaidens attend to the cleaning, but as one well-versed in the Arcane arts, Lucethious had little need for much in the way of assistance with the estate.

Lucethious Manadawn was a high elf of Quel'Thalas, though his family ruled the small township of Northdale. Given the close proximity to both Quel'Thalas and northern Lordaeron, it was both a human and high elven settlement. Lucethious was the noble of the community, and ruled from his family's manor, Manadawn Estate. Lucethious carried himself differently than other nobles would - he had hair which spiked up at the front and was smoothly combed towards the back, but which also flowed down the sides, onto and over his shoulders. It was an unusual two-toned fiery red hue, something that contrasted with his profession, as Lucethious specialized in Frost magic. He had deep blue eyes which shimmered ever so slightly, a testament to his power as an experienced mage.

Lucethious was raised at the Estate, but when it was realized he possessed magical talent, he was sent to Dalaran to be educated in the ways of magic. Lucethious' parents were both aristrocrats, and as such having a magister in the family was something to be proud of. But Lucethious was more than just a noble - when he returned from Dalaran as a fully-fledged user of the Arcane and ready to take up the mantle from his parents, he issued many changes to Northdale. Before his rule, Northdale had been an exclusively high elven settlement in human lands, but Lucethious abolished this to encourage human-elf relations. Lucethious himself preferred to take an active part in the town he ruled, and chose not to closet himself in the Estate as his parents before him did, but instead engage with the inhabitants to ensure that everyone's lives ran as smoothly as possible.

In the Second War, Lucethious had assisted the Alliance by joining the ranks of other Dalaran magi and helped repel the orcish invasion. He enjoyed employing his abilities in Frost magic, and in particular his Blizzard spell. More than once orcs had seen him as a genuine threat and attempted to corner him in the heat of battle, but Lucethious was more than capable at fighting single-targets as well. Most of his allies in the war had been quite surprised to find out he was a noble - nobles were usually too busy preening themselves and counting their treasuries to be concerned with even the wellbeing of their subordinates, let alone engage in open warfare; a stigma Lucethious wished to avoid.

In his absences, his steward Rokir governed the estate. Rokir was a human, and performed his tasks admirably, but it was no secret that he desired Lucethious' position. He carried out his orders without complaint, though Lucethious was always careful to note the disdain in his steward's voice whenever he acknowledged Lucethious' requests. Lucethious was unconcerned about this, however - he would outlive the human by several centuries by virtue of his elven heritage.

Perhaps that is why he is always so bitter, Lucethious thought to himself wryly as he waited for the steward to show himself. When it became apparent that the human was absent, Lucethious sighed and strode over to his closet to retrieve his garments. In this regard, the elf was not particularly creative - he was almost always seen wearing a flowing midnight blue robe with matching boots, along with white fingerless gloves. He made to leave the chambers, but just as he was reaching for the doorknob, the door opened. Standing in it was a rather pale, almost sickly looking man with a pointed face which didn't quite hide the cunning in his eyes, which did not seem to stop darting about. They flitted from the desk, to the wardrobe, to the bed, back to the desk, and finally rested on Lucethious, upon whom they narrowed slightly. He was wearing a tightly-fitted tuxedo that seemed stifling.

"Ah, Rokir, I was wondering where you were," Lucethious said, smiling warmly.

"My apologies, Master Manadawn," the human replied in a gravelly voice, bowing slightly, "I was... distracted."

"It is of no concern," Lucethious said, waving his hand airily, "and please, I have requested before that you do not refer to me as 'Master'. I am no more a resident of Northdale than you or any other inhabitant in our fine town."

"Of course, Lord Manadawn," said Rokir, bowing again. Lucethious sighed, knowing that the human would merely continue changing titles simply to annoy him, and gave up instead.

"Mail?" he requested, holding out his hand. The steward reached into his tight tuxedo and withdrew some letters.

"Mostly letters updating the status of the Alliance and the war," Rokir said in a bored, droll voice. "You might find yourself surprised..."

Lucethious flitted through the telegrams, pausing with each one; a couple of letters from inhabitants of Northdale; some papers regarding trade with Stratholme and Darrowshire; a letter from Dalaran; and lastly, a missive stamped with a seal bearing the House of Menthil crest. Lucethious frowned at the last - letters from the crown itself were extremely rare, and usually only sent out in times of emergency or some other import.

"Leave me, please," Lucethious said, waving his gloved hand without looking up from the envelope. Rokir bowed again and departed. Lucethious flicked his hand a second time and the door shut with a snap. Alone, he settled himself on a cushioned armchair, still clutching the letter. He carefully drew his forefinger in the air above the edge of the envelope, which suddenly split open as a fine cut appeared along it. Flicking that same finger, the letter within fluttered out and unfolded itself in mid-air. Lucethious drew back and relaxed in the armchair - waving his hand at the windows, the curtains suddenly drew themselves, flooding the room with much more light and allowing him to more easily read the letter.

_To Lord Manadawn of Northdale and Manadawn Estate,_

_From the Crown of Lordaeron, we send you this missive to inform you of a state of emergency. The internment camps have been broken and the orcs that were defeated at the end of the Second War have been freed. Approximately three days ago as of writing, the orcs launched a full-scale raid against the port town of Hasic, killing a majority of the town guard and causing minor structural damage. Reports indicate the orcs stole several Alliance transport ships and have fled across the sea - it is possible that they intend to regroup elsewhere before planning further raids._

_The nation of Kul Tiras has been alerted and Admiral Proudmoore has already issued several fleets to scour the oceans. As soon as anything is discovered you shall be informed immediately. The Alliance may yet hear the call to arms once more._

_By blood and honour we serve,_

_King Terenas Menethil II_

Lucethious re-read the letter a second time, stroking his chin. The orcs had escaped? How had this news evaded him up until now? Surely they had not all burst from the internment camps simultaneously? Was the Alliance attempting to cover-up? Questions buzzed around his mind. The situation at hand was indeed suspicious. The orcs must have been planning this for weeks; months, even. Moreover, even the fastest messengers took up to a week to reach Northdale from Lordaeron - if the letter was taken to be true, the orcs could have launched yet another full-scale invasion by now.

And yet... something was amiss. _Reports indicate the orcs stole several Alliance transport ships and have fled across the sea_... Why would they do that? Surely if they were to regroup they would have fled elsewhere, in a different direction - perhaps south, to the ravaged kingdom of Azeroth?

Abruptly, Lucethious snapped his fingers. The letter folded itself up once more and slipped back inside the envelope before floating over to his desk and settling itself down neatly. At the same time the closet burst open and a long, blue travelling cloak to match his robe hovered over. Lucethious strode out of the room, fastening it as he did so.

"Rokir, I'm going for a stroll in the township," he said airily, "please manage the estate in my absence."

As he left the estate, Lucethious conjured himself a sweetroll to enjoy on the way to the town below. Manadawn Estate was settled upon a hill just outside the town so that the current noble would be able to observe his or her town with an all-knowing eye. Lucethious, however, was never one for observing - he preferred to be hands-on, and as such he was not an uncommon sight within Northdale itself. He flicked his hair out of his face as he walked - it was a bright, sunny day and he wished to enjoy it. Nearing the end of the drive, Lucethious waved his hand and the gates, flanked on either side by statues of a unicorn and a dragon, opened silently. Striding out to the main road, he cheerfully waved at the passers-by, who smiled in return - Lord Lucethious Manadawn tended to frequent the town.

Human and high elf alike lived harmoniously in Northdale, a sight which pleased Lucethious. In the wake of the Second War, tensions had arisen between the humans and high elves over the subject of incompetent military management. Many high elves considered the slaughter in Quel'Thalas unnecessary, an event which could have been avoided had the humans sent more troops to protect the nation. Lordaeron, in turn, countered that had it not been for them, Quel'Thalas would likely not be standing. From there, fissures formed in human-elf relations. And yet here, humans and elves lived with no quarrel.

Most likely from having lived together for so long, Lucethious mused to himself. The noble strode into the town square and sat down to finish his sweetroll. A fountain in the center of the square trickled merrily, depicting two elves dancing gracefully in the middle of the water. Lucethious had never truly appreciated the statue - it had been commisioned by none other than his father, and loyalty to his parents had stopped him from having it removed, but at the same time he found it rather distasteful and didn't like the message it seemed to imply. While many elves were content with deceiving themselves that they were a superior race, Lucethious knew that the elves and humans needed one another for mutual survival - not just simply for trade, but when times called for it, should they not stand united, they would fall one by one. Not just the humans and elves, but their dwarven and gnomish cousins, as well.

"It's a shame we can't get some dwarves and gnomes here too," Lucethious muttered to himself absent-mindedly; sadly, neither race was known for venturing far from Khaz Modan. Granted, many had moved during the Second War, but that was mostly because they had been forcibly displaced by the orcish onslaught; Lucethious knew wryly that they were flocking back to their homes to rebuild their former lives.

His musing was brought to an abrupt end when a human child, playfully running about the square, tripped and toppled to a skidding halt in front of him, kicking up dirt all over his robes. The child quickly stood up, looking not a little bit frightened.

"Sorry, mister Manadawn, sir!" he said anxiously. Lucethious straightened up, dusting himself. Before he could say anything, however, a woman strode up to them both.

"Now, Sam, what have I told you about running instead of walking!" she said sternly, "Now look, you've gone and spoiled our noble's robes! I'm terribly sorry, sir," she added quickly, addressing Lucethious. "He's a boy, still learning what to do and what not to do..."

"Not to worry, not to worry," Lucethious said airily, clapping his gloved hands together - the dust vanished. "We were all children once."

The boy relaxed somewhat, though he still looked anxious. Lucethious smiled at him.

"You be careful now, young one," he said warmly. "Don't want to give yourself an injury before you're even an adult! You've got spark, though. Don't let it go out."

The boy smiled in return, though somewhat confusedly, before running off once more. Lucethious turned to the mother.

"An energetic young man you have there," he said. "No doubt he'll serve the Alliance well."

The woman sighed. "He's not actually mine," she said sadly, "he's an orphan. His parents were slain in the Second War..."

"Ah," said Lucethious quietly, "one of many."

"Please, sir, don't let me keep you," the woman said, bowing and going after her son. Lucethious frowned after the pair - it pained him to see the hardships wrought by war, but such was the price of peace. Again, however, his musings were once more brought to an abrupt halt, this time by a horse and his rider cantering through the town square.

"I come seeking to deliver a message to Lord Manadawn," the rider cried to the people around. "You there!" he said, pointing to the village blacksmith, "Can you direct me to Manadawn Estate?"

"That won't be necessary, messenger," Lucethious said before the blacksmith could answer. He strode forward. "You may deliver it to me... personally," he said, bowing.

"Very well, milord," the man said promptly, "I come bearing a message for a call to arms. Please act promptly and accordingly. Good day to you."

With that he turned and rode off. Lucethious blinked in surprise - already, a call to arms? Had the orcs indeed invaded? People around him were muttering, some looking concerned, others frightened.

"Excuse me," Lucethious said, striding back to the Estate.

* * *

Inside his chambers once more, Lucethious at last had a look at the envelope, and did a double-take. It was not bearing the crest of Menethil, but rather that of Proudmoore. Wondering what on Azeroth it could be about, he withdrew the letter. He blinked in slight surprise - the curly writing was written by none other than Jaina Proudmoore, brother to Tandred Proudmoore and daughter to Daelin Proudmoore! Even more bemused, he read the letter - it was far shorter than the one sent by King Terenas.

_To whom it may concern,_

_I send these letters out as a personal call to arms. A storm is approaching, a great battle, but it is not here in Lordaeron; we must sail from our fair lands, for they are lost. I implore you, do this for our world - an enemy far greater than the Horde comes for us, and we must make our stand not here, but across the sea! Please join my expedition to lands unknown, to fight an enemy the likes of which we have never seen, but to have a chance of saving our world!_

_Lady Jaina Proudmoore_

Lucethious did not know what to think. These words sounded like spewed babble. And yet this was written by Jaina Proudmoore, daughter to the ruler of Kul Tiras, and apprentice to Antonidas himself! Female wizards were uncommon at best, and to become an apprentice to Antonidas was quite an achievement. Furthermore, Proudmoore was known in Dalaran to be sharper than most, intuitive and, when the situation arose, very good at reading others and planning accordingly. Proudmoore's words may sound blustering at worst, but somehow, Lucethious had an inkling that she knew more than Terenas. Terenas had issued a warning where there was no need for one - Proudmoore, however, may be on to something. Indeed, had Terenas' missive suggested that the orcs, too, were fleeing across the sea? Lucethious sat, pondering, before at last making his decision.

"Rokir!" he called out. Moments later the steward poked his head in, eyes narrowed as usual.

"Yes, milord?"

"I'm leaving," the elf replied simply. "Please manage the estate in my absence."


	2. Secrets of the Nether

**Chapter 2: Secrets of the Nether**

Yulgash brushed his hair out of his eyes, trying to concentrate. He was breathing slowly but deeply, trying to block out all distractions. The spell he was attempting was quite difficult - before him, the air shimmered as power swam about the room. Beneath him, an intricately runed circle of power glowed a bright pink, hummingly slightly. Closer inspection revealed the circle was not merely drawn or painted, but in fact made up of very carefully placed rubies. This circle was further enclosed by a larger circle of emeralds, which were, at that moment, quite inanimate.

Yulgash mumbled some arcane formulae under his breath, and the rubies shattered, leaving only reddish-pink dust behind. At the same time, they released a wave of energy outwards, which was absorbed by the emeralds. These, in turn, began to glow a bright green, humming even louder than the rubies. Around him, Yulgash noticed the shimmering seemed to shift from his surroundings to above him. As he muttered yet more strange words, tendrils of energy, neither red nor green, but bright purple, reached up from the emeralds towards the disturbance in the air above him. As they touched the shimmering space, a literal tear seemed to appear in the room. There was a great whooshing sound as the rip widened, and glancing up Yulgash could see a strange, empty void.

"Yes!" he cried jubilantly, "I've done it! I've opened a summoning por-"

As soon as he cried out, however, the rip abruptly closed. At the same time, it released its energy back outwards, into the room. The emeralds, however, had shattered to dust like the rubies, and were no longer able to conduct the energy. As such, the released energy merely careened about the room. Yulgash grunted as he was buffeted about while they energy dissipated violently. At last, it abated and he opened his eyes cautiously.

His chambers were ruined - shelves were splintered, their contents thrown everywhere. Books lay open, pages ripped out by the shockwave. Glass vials and tubes had been ground to dust not unlike the gemstones he had been using, and some of his furniture had been overturned entirely. He gave a slight sigh - this was not unexpected. He had been practising summoning spells in secret for some time now, and this was not the first time it had happened, nor did he expect it to be the last. With a flick of his hand, the shelves mended themselves, pages flew back to their appropriate books, the glass containers (which he had been sure to leave empty after the first attempt, which had been all the more catastrophic when the shockwave also had sent magical fluids flying around the room) reformed and the furniture righted itself.

"So close..." he mumbled ruefully, "And yet so far..."

He strode over to his desk upon which a deep purple book rested (both of which had been repeated casualties of his failed castings). Opening the book, he flicked through the pages until he found one titled "_Summoning - Portals to the Twisting Nether_". The book was that of warlock magic, magic not unlike that which was employed by the orcs in the First and Second Wars. Of course, the magic was forbidden to be practiced - as a mage in the nation of Dalaran, such magics were strictly forbidden, and punishments for even minor infractions could be severe. But Yulgash could not help it - demonic magic seemed so tempting, and powerful, that he secretly studied it within his chambers, drinking in the information, trying to manipulate it to his own ends.

Yulgash was an everyday human mage of Dalaran at first appearance. He was rather tall, though not quite as tall as en elf; he had short black hair which he kept trimmed to the sides and neatly combed. He also posessed a short goatee. His eyes were a dark brown and held some mirth which he was always willing to share with others, but at the same time they could display cold fury when he was casting offensively. Yulgash was, at first glance, more of a jester than a mage - he seemed to specialize in parlour tricks, spells that would impress children and those who didn't wield the arcane. But in combat, he cast fiery wrath upon his foes, and he had incinerated more than his fair share of orcs in the Second War. He was gentle by nature, but had a lust for power that drew him towards aspects of magic that were generally frowned upon.

"I'll get there eventually," he sighed, shrugging. At the same time there was a smart rap on the door - he hastily stuffed the book into a nearby bag. "Come in," he called out as nonchalantly as he could manage. The door creaked open and Ansirem Runeweaver stepped inside.

"Ah, Yulgash," the older man said, frowning slightly, "I thought I would find you here."

"Greetings, Archmage," Yulgash said somberly. "How may I assist you?"

"I couldn't help but hear a tremendous crash on my way to the library," Runeweaver said, staring about the room, "have you been practicing new spells?"

"Yes, you could say that," Yulgash answered shiftily.

"Mmm... nothing illicit, I hope?" Runeweaver asked, scrutinizing the younger mage.

"No, sir, definately not," Yulgash replied quickly.

"Mmm..." the Archamge said again. After glancing about a second time, not with a little suspicion, he continued. "I was wondering if you have a copy of Meitre's Scroll on Transmutation? I wish to compare it to the library's copy, but have been having trouble finding one to compare it to..."

"Certainly, Archmage," Yulgash said, bowing, and turned to his shelves. While he was browsing, he could virtually feel Ansirem's boring into the room, no doubt searching for something. Yulgash was already suspected of studying demon magics - other magi had occasionally seen him browsing the more 'amerciable' sections of the library, and he was keen to avoid discovery. He was flicking through his collection of scrolls when the Archmage loudly cleared his throat. Yulgash turned around.

"Yulgash, may I ask why you are in possession of this book?" the Archmage asked quietly.

"Wh-what book, sir?" the younger mage asked worriedly. In response, Ansirem cleared his throat a second time and flicked his hand - the bag Yulgash had hidden the book in earlier suddenly glowed, and the book in question shot out of the bag and into Runeweaver's outstretched hand.

"_This _book, Yulgash," Runeweaver said. Glancing down, he read out, "'_Magic of the Void - Secrets of the Twisting Nether'_. Dear, dear, Yulgash... been studying demonic magic, have we?"

"No, sir, I was researching the book to... to be better prepared in combat against demonic adversaries," Yulgash invented wildly. "The orcs, you see, I... I've heard rumours they're free. If they should start another war, I- I want to be prepared for the horrors that we may face."

He swallowed hard. Runeweaver considered him for a moment.

"But I have heard of your combat prowess, Yulgash," he continued, "surely you can handle demons already?"

"I can, sir," the younger mage assured quickly, "but it... it's taxing to fight demons, sir, I merely wish to have a more advantagous position should I encounter one."

Again, the Archmage scrutinized him. At last, he said, "Very well. But I'm afraid I must confiscate this book - such texts are strictly forbidden to be removed from the library, as you _should _know. I'm afraid I'll have to report this to the Kirin Tor, Yulgash."

"Yes, sir, of course," Yulgash said, nodding quickly. The Archmage turned to leave. "Uh, sir?"

Runeweaver paused, his hand on the doorknob.

"Meitre's Scroll on Transmutation," he said breathlessly, holding out the scroll. Runeweaver blinked, took the scroll and nodded, and left the room, shutting the door with a snap.

Yulgash collapsed on a chair, breathing a huge sigh of relief. He was quite surprised he had managed to talk his way out of that encounter - he was expecting to be facing charges, but got off merely with a warning.

Nonetheless, he would have to proceed far more carefully from now on...

* * *

Yulgash sat poring over the tome. It was long since sundown and he had been in the library for the last several hours. Since Runeweaver had confiscated _Secrets of the Twisting Nether_, Yulgash had to try a new approach. He was quite disappointed -_ Secrets of the Twisting Nether_ contained well-written details on demon portal magic and summoning, a subject which interested him greatly. He was less inclined to follow a path of destructive magic, as that wasn't particularly his personality, and his training as a mage allowed him access to powerful enough magic as it was. He had disdain for the slow, painful spells that demon magic also taught, as those ways were more of the brutal tactics employed by the Horde's warlocks.

As it was, he was now reading a tome called _The Cover of Darkness_, a book which seemed more concerned about instructing the reader on how to pursue demon magic without discovery. It held many useful facts, but few useful spells. Beside him was a pile of discarded other books, none of which had been terribly useful. The book, he had noticed, seemed well-worn - no doubt other apprentices and magi in the past had studied from this book. Indeed, Dalaran held many more warlock want-to-be's than it let on - it would hardly bode well for the nation's reputation if it got out that it was housing practitioners of demonic magic. However, the Kirin Tor generally saw fit to stock books on such subjects, so as to better prepare aspiring magi for demonic encounters. Unfortunately, most magisters took this priveledge the wrong way, which tended to result in expulsion.

Yulgash gave a small groan and rested his forehead on the pages of the book - the constant reading was starting to take its toll. His head was throbbing, his brain feeling as though it had been beaten against the inside of his skull. His concentration, too, was waning - he desparately needed sleep. Branding the evening's venture as futile, he stood and gathered up the books, bitter about having to return them all. The library's on not being able to borrow such books was a thorn in Yulgash's side. The reasoning was that magisters would be allowed to pursue them all they like, but would not be able to actually cast the spells out in the open without exposing themselves. Similarly, by not allowing the students to leave with the books, they would not be able to try and cast them in privacy - as Yulgash had attempted. The only recourse would be to attempt to memorize the spell, such as the incantation, sequence and required reagents, but few students had the patience to do so.

As he returned _The Cover of Darkness_, Yulgash made to leave the library. The corridors were almost deserted - here and there some magi stood, mumbling to one another about who knows what. Yulgash avoided their eyes - he did not wish to arouse suspicion. Eventually, he found a deserted corridor. Glancing about him, Yulgash rested against an intricately runed pillar. The corridors were lined with bright purple flames that matched Dalaran's colours - he purposely stood underneath one so that he did not appear to be attempting to hide. He rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his mind - the constant reading had left him feeling drained and exhausted, and he was beginning to wish he had learnt about Clearcasting. Someone's voice swiftly brought him back to reality.

"Ah, there you are, Yulgash."

It was Ansirem Runeweaver again. Yulgash cursed quietly under his breath - had the Archmage seen him studying the tomes?

"I checked your chambers for you, but you weren't there. I thought you might have been to the library but I must have just missed you," the Archmage said, striding up to the younger mage. "Here, thankyou for letting me borrow it."

Yulgash blinked. Runeweaver was holding out a dusty scroll. It took him a moment to realize what he was talking about.

"Oh... yes, Meitre's Scroll. Thankyou, Archmage. Forgive me, I've been reading a bit too long and am a little distracted..."

"Ah, yes, speaking of," Ansirem said, suddenly stern, and Yulgash looked at him apprehensively. "I have reported your breach of removing forbidden books from the library. The Kirin Tor has determined that as punishment, you are hereby suspended from all further classes and projects until further notice."

Yulgash groaned and slumped against the pillar - indefinite suspension? Runeweaver surveyed him sternly.

"I'm sorry, Yulgash, but those are the rules, and I cannot override the Kirin Tor's decision. You broke the rules and must pay the price. Good night."

"Yes, sir, I understand," Yulgash sighed miserably. "Good night."

* * *

A week later, Yulgash was once more in the library, reading _Secrets of the Twisting Nether_. It had since been returned, which Yulgash was pleased to know. He had decided that, having practiced the summoning spell several times already, he may be able to attempt it from memory. However, he wished to pursue the tome once more, very thoroughly, before making the attempt. As such he had been reading it devoutly for the previous three nights, when he had happily rediscovered it. His suspension proved to be surprisingly helpful - while he did not study the tome to great lengths during day hours, so as to avoid suspicion, he was able to use his newfound spare time to recite the casting sequence to himself to help remember.

Tonight, however, seemed to be the night. Shutting the tome with a snap and brimming with confidence, he returned it to its shelf and happily returned to his chambers. Humming to himself with the anticipation of success, he rummaged about his shelves to obtain the necessary materials for the summoning ritual.

"Two phials of etched rubies..." he murmured to himself. "Five phials of crushed emerald... And Meitri's Scroll of Binding..."

Whistling merrily to himself, he carefully spread the rubies into the smaller circle, and the emeralds into the larger circle. Delicately, he prodded stray gems into the correct position - even a slight displacement could cause the spell to fail with the usual energy reflux. After double- and triple-checking to make sure everything was in alignment, Yulgash stepped into the ruby circle.

Taking a deep breath to calm and steady himself, Yulgash closed his eyes and felt inside him for his power. He began chanting, reaching outwards with this power, channeling it into his surroundings. Opening his eyes slightly, he saw the usual shimmering around him. Glancing down, he saw that his energy had been absorbed, as usual, by the rubies, which were glowing pink and humming. The raw energy and its proximity to the surroundings caused the very air to warp. Chanting the next stage of the incantation, the rubies crumbled to dust, as before. The released energy was immediately absorbed and enhanced by the outer emerald ring, and the humming grew louder.

Determined to succeed, not to fail, Yulgash redoubled his concentration and efforts. The shimmering rose above him, and at another muttered command the emeralds shattered, releasing their energy outwards. Yulgash weaved the energy upwards, into the warped air above him. As expected, a tear in reality appeared as the tendrils made contact with the shimmering energy. But this time, he was prepared. Closing his eyes, he used his mind to reach in, and grasped about blindly in what he knew was the Twisting Nether. After some wild flailing, he felt his mental grip close about something. He tugged - the thing tugged back. After a brief mind-struggle, he pulled whatever it was out of the portal.

With a gasp, Yulgash opened his eyes. Fortunately, the energy was expended in keeping the rift open, so there was no violent explosion to ravage the room this time. Looking at what he had pulled out of the portal, he saw a small horned creature burning with green fire and glowing yellow eyes.

He had summoned an imp.

The creature looked about wildly, evidently looking for a means of escape. Acting quickly, Yulgash whipped out Meitre's Scroll of Binding and read aloud the incantation. The imp snarled in dismay as a bright green, glowing cage flared into life around it. After a few moments it faded - the demon was now bound to his will.

"Bah! Bound by a mortal," the imp fumed. Yulgash was unconcerned with his new companion's evident displeasure - he was still savoring his triumph.

"So, I've summoned my first-" He paused, unsure what term to use. Pet? Companion? Familiar?

"Minion," the imp finished bitterly. Resigned to its fate, it continued, "the name's Belpep. What's yours... master...?"

Yulgash was slightly taken aback at being called 'master', moreso at having a 'minion' - he decided he would treat Belpep as an equal.

"My name is Yulgash," he said, holding out his hand. The imp's eye twitched, likely a demonic equivalent of raising an eyebrow, and put its tiny claw in Yulgash's hand. The mage expected at least a minor burn from the fire, but found it was merely pleasantly warm. Yulgash reasoned it was a result of their master-minion connection.

The encounter was brought to an abrupt end, however, when the door to his chambers opened, and Ansirem Runeweaver strode inside.

"Oh, Yulgash," he said, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yulgash, you poor, misguided mage... Did you truly think I wasn't watching you? Your trip down the path of a warlock did not pass by unnoticed."

Yulgash stood frozen, rooted to the spot. His jaw hung open loosely - how would he talk his way out of this debacle?

"Haha, busted, master!" Belpep cackled. Ansirem glanced at the imp.

"I see you've already summoned a familiar..." he said. He gave a heavy sigh before continuing. "I'm sorry, Yulgash, but you know the consequences of such an action. I will make my report directly to the Council of Six - that should give you time to gather your belongings. It will be a shame to see you go, Yulgash - you were a good student."

He shut the door quietly. Yulgash, having regained feeling in his legs, staggered over to his chair and slumped down, face in his hands. Belpep mercifully remained silent - in addition to feeling thoroughly miserable, Yulgash now also had a strong urge to kill something. This was it, then. He was facing expulsion, that much was clear. He had lived in Dalaran for almost a decade now, it had been his home. Now...

He looked up as the door opened again. Runeweaver stepped just over the threshold, looked around quickly, reached into his robes and withdrew a letter.

"Here, boy," he said quietly, "I received this earlier today... a missive. You may yet have a future... Southshore, meet her at Southshore."

He handed Yulgash the letter and left again. Bemused, Yulgash looked down at the letter and gave a small gasp.

It bore the crest of Proudmoore.


	3. Landfall

**Chapter 3: Landfall**

Torgall shredded some cloth, observing Torgus' wound carefully. The gash was long, but not too deep, thankfully - unfortunately, as it was down the leg, the warrior would unlikely be able to do battle again for some time. Torgus gave a groan, though whether from pain or frustration, Torgall could not tell. When he had torn enough cloth to serve as some makeshift bandages, he wrapped them tightly around the wound. Torgus bared his teeth as the pressure intensified the pain, but bore it well. At least the flow of blood had been stemmed.

"There," grunted Torgall, straightening up. "It's crude, but it'll hold. You might need a splint if you want it to hold your weight, though."

Torgus glanced at the bandages - they had a red stain which was, fortunately, not spreading. "I shan't be able to fight with these, I presume," he growled ruefully. Torgall shook his head.

"You'll barely be able to walk, let alone engage in combat," he said. "You'll have to wait until we find a shaman... it's a shame we didn't have any on our boat," he sighed, "but then, we weren't expecting such a... rough landing."

The Horde had, after a month or so of sailing, at last reached the land that their Warchief was seeking. En route they had encountered and saved the Darkspear jungle troll tribe, who had joined them in their quest to seek their destiny. Unfortunately, as they neared the land, a vicious storm had tossed the boats wildly, separating the stolen fleet. Many boats had crashed and sunk; it was unknown how many orcs and trolls had perished. Those that survived found little to salvage - many supplies had sunk. Worse still, the Horde was scattered across the coastline with no idea of their whereabouts, and surrounded by hostile locals who did not take kindly to uninvited guests.

Torgall stomped about in frustration. "Horse-men, pig-men, cow-men... fish men," he growled angrily to himself. "What sort of backwards land is this?"

Upon mustering their supplies and recovering from the crash, the survivors of the boat Torgall was on had explored their immediate surroundings. They gleaned very little from the bushes - no one had yet been brave enough to identify what was and was not edible. To make matters worse, they were soon after attacked by strange pig-men with hooves for feet and spines on their back. They had very primitive tactics and equipment, and were fought back easily, but it put the survivors immediately on the defensive.

Not long after, however, they were set upon by strange horse-men. These beasts, while possessing little more intelligence than the previous attackers, were much larger and stronger, and were far more difficult to take down. Again, the survivors had fought them back, but they had lost a few of their number and yet more were wounded - it was during that battle that Torgus received the vicious slash to his leg.

Torgus and Torgall had met on the boat, and were immediately at loggerheads - in the Second War, Torgus was a prime dragon-rider of the Dragonmaw Clan. Greshka had explained to Torgall on the boat about the Dragonmaw Clan and how they had enslaved the Dragonqueen Alexstrasza and her Red Dragonflight, forcing them to be weapons of war and carelessly having them slaughtered in battle. They had been stationed in the dwarven mountain of Grim Batol, which was eventually retaken by a combined assault of hill dwarves, a human mage, an elven ranger and a gryphon rider, and a chance encounter of the Dragon Aspects themselves. The Dragonmaw's actions had horrified Torgall, and he held great disdain for the clan thereafter.

As such, upon meeting with Torgus, Torgall had immediately treated the champion disrespectfully and ignored him from then on. Later on during the trip, however, Torgall learnt, from both Greshka and other orcs, that Torgus, along with many other Dragonmaw orcs, had been captured at the Battle of Grim Batol and sent to the internment camps. It was during that period of captivity that many orcs felt remorse and disgust at their past actions, Torgus being one of them. Torgall regretted his earlier treatment of the older orc, and after some reconciliation, they developed a respect for one another which became a friendship. They had battled alongside one another when the pig- and horse-men had attacked, and as such it was Torgall who saw to his friend's injury.

Torgall himself had emerged uninjured, though that was not to say unscarred - he had several marks along his body which were not, as many would assume, from the First and Second Wars, but rather from battles with his own people. Torgall, hailing from the extinct Whiteclaw Clan, had never joined the Horde in its savage bloodlust and brutal wars, and had instead roamed the steadily dying plains of his home, Draenor. He had occasionally come into conflict with orcs from other clans, and had the scars to prove it, but he avoided conflict with humans when he could avoid it. His hair was a sleek, dark black streaked with grey, pulled back into a handsome knot, and his beard, tassled and braided, was coloured to match. His eyes, unlike many other orcs, were a dark brown.

As Torgall continued to pace around, Greshka approached him, half-glancing at Torgus. Greshka, on the other hand, had fought in both the Wars, and had seen the Horde's corruption first-hand. Greshka was smaller than Torgall but no less strong. Rather than hefting an axe like he did, however, Greshka was far more effective with a bow in hand. She kept armed with two longblades for close-quarters, and while she was efficient with them, she was much more at home in the back, raining proverbial death upon the enemy. Greshka had maroon-brown shoulder-length hair, which seemed to be both neat and wild at the same time. She also had two small, gold noserings, and her bright green eyes matched strikingly with her skin.

"How is he?" she muttered as the older warrior gingerly tested his leg.

"He'll survive," Torgall replied quietly, as Torgus collapsed with a grunt of pain. "Though his leg might not if he doesn't treat it right," he continued, not without a hint of impatience.

"I'm sure the Horde will find us soon, and then a Shaman can attend to him," Greshka said consolingly. Torgall merely grunted in reply. They both stopped talking abruptly as a Darkspear carrying several hunting spears approached them.

"Torgall, Greshka, mon," he said, grinning toothily at them, though his many teeth were dwarfed by the size of his tusks.

"Rakaji," Torgall rumbled in reply, "how fare you? How goes the scouting?"

The troll shook his head, his grin fading. "Not good, mon. Dere be no sign of da Horde, or any udda orcs for dat matta. We saw some of dem bull-men watchin' us closely, but dey be payin' us no mind. A few of dose fish-men attacked us, but dey wasn't much of a threat. A few spears took care o' dem," he finished with his grin sneaking back onto his face, patting one of the spears he was carrying appreciatively. Torgall saw it had some bright-blue blood on it.

"Was there any sign of the pig-men or horse-men?" he asked. "We don't want to fall into an ambush."

Rakaji shook his head again. "Nah, mon, dey seem to be leavin' us well enough alone now. Although I wouldn' be surprised if dey be comin' back wit' a larger force, mon."

"We must remain alert, then," Torgall said, nodding dismissively at the troll, who returned to his companions. "Greshka, how well can you climb a tree?"

"Well enough," she replied, shrugging. "How far out do you want me?"

"At least a hundred yards," he said. "We want as early warning as possible. See if any orcs or Darkspears will consent to join you."

"I understand," she said and, with a nod, she departed. Torgall was unsure quite how he had fallen into the leadership role - there were plenty of other orcs, such as Torgus, who had more combat experience than he from the Wars. But then, there were no humans here, this was a completely foreign land where any combat experience was acceptable, and Torgall seemed to have been the most prepared to take command of their boat's survivors. He strode over to Torgus, who was still futilely attempting to make his injured leg bear his weight.

"If you don't stop aggravating it, you'll render it useless," Torgall said impatiently, "and then it will have to be removed entirely."

"Bah! I've sustained worse injuries than this," the older warrior growled.

"Maybe so," Torgall said dismissively, "but at least you waited them out. If you don't let a shaman tend to this, it's only going to get worse."

Torgus merely growled again, but stopped attempting to stand. Torgall nodded and left his friend to brood over his injury. He sat down next to a bonfire the others had constructed - there was plenty of scrap wood left after the crash, and with nothing else to do with it, they had decided to burn it. Torgall removed his gloves - he had dressed himself in studded leather armour and a horned helm - and reached out to the flames; while the land was dry, it was not overly-warm, no doubt due to their close presence to the sea, and Torgall gratefully accepted the fire's warmth. He gave a slight sigh, looking about - would they be stranded here, or would the Horde find them?

The day drew on, and Torgall alternated between impatient pacing, sitting by the fire, and patrolling the outlying vegetation to check on the scouts. The air was quite still - there was an occasional breeze that blew through, rustling the leaves, but Torgall was not fooled - for one with a trained ear, the wind blowing through the leaves was a far different sound to that made by someone moving through the vegetation, however surreptitious. Birds occasionally squawked or twittered to one another, and the low hum of insects hung over the crash site, and yet the day continued to wear on without event. At long last, however, Greshka returned with a broad grin on her face.

"They arrive!" she said happily. Torgall turned in the direction she was pointing and moments later heard the heavy thudding of what could only be other orcs. Sure enough, a large contingent of orcs and trolls marched around some nearby rocks and trees, led by Thrall himself, resplendent in Doomhammer's armour and riding his large, black wolf. One of the grunts from Torgall's boat approached the Warchief.

"Throm-ka, Warchief," the grunt said, bowing slightly.

"Well met, Warrior," Thrall rumbled, "Has there been any sign of--"

At that moment, however, a cry split through the air.

"The horse men are chargin'! Defend yaselves!" It was Rakaji. He was running towards them from the opposite direction, and in hot pursuit was a force larger than the earlier raid.

"Lok-tar! Lok-tar!" cried Thrall, urging his mount forward. The grunts and trolls charged toward their opponents - Torgall heaved his axe and swung it at the nearest beast. Too slow to react, it bellowed in pain as Torgall's axe cleaved into its midriff. Bleeding profusely, it staggered for a few moments before collapsing. Torgall stepped over his fallen opponent and leapt at one of the larger horse-men. This one was wielding an axe equally as large as Torgall's, and was more aware than his previous opponent. Both combatants swung at one another, the axes clashing with a sharp ringing. Torgall bared his teeth and snarled at his adversary, who bellowed something inarticulate in return. The beast cleaved in a wide arc, but Torgall nimbly leapt back. A moment later, several arrows lodged themselves in the horse-man's chest. Torgall glanced behind him as it gave an angered shout, and saw Greshka firing and reloading, blindingly quick as always. He turned to his opponent once more, only to see a huge spear impale itself in the chest area - another glance revealed Rakaji hurling spears at the enemy, and Torgall grinned appreciatively.

Under previous circumstances, the survivors from Torgall's boat likely would have been defeated - the attacking force was larger than the previous attack. It was fortunate, then, that the Horde had arrived so timely. Slowly but surely, the combined orc and troll warriors, led by their Warchief, beat the attackers back, and before long the last of the horse-men were either killed or retreating. Torgall looked about - a few warriors were slain, but the Horde had fared well in the battle. However, he was just catching his breath when some nearby trees crashed to the ground - they turned, weapons at the ready; another attack?

But instead it was three of the bull-men they had seen earlier in the trees. Two of them were wielding huge logs - a second look revealed they were intricately carved. The third, who appeared to be their leader, was wearing a leather harness, to which two more of the logs were strapped, these two also with what appeared to be ceremonial spikes and carvings. The bull-man bore the load with ease, and also wielded a huge, wicked-looking warblade. Torgall wouldn't be surprised if it could cleave through entire trees, and indeed was likely the reason the bull-men had walked _through_ the vegetation, rather than around.

"I am Cairne, chief of the Bloodhoof tauren. You greenskins fight with both savagery and valour. I am intrigued."

The bull-man, or tauren, as he called himself, spoke in a deep, rumbling voice which bespoke years of experience, wisdom and ruggedness - he seemed to radiate power.

"I am Thrall, and these are my brethren, the orcs," the Warchief returned, bowing his head slightly. "We've come seeking the destiny promised to us."

"Seeking destiny?" the chieftain replied with an amused grunt, "It will find you in time, young one. However, there is an Oracle far to the north which might be able to--"

"North?" Thrall cut across, "But there's an army of the horse-men marching north."

"What? No!" cried Cairne, "My village is in danger!"

With that he turned, and with his two tauren companions stomped off through the vegetation with surprising swiftness given their size and weapons they were wielding.

"I must know more about this Oracle!" growled Thrall, "Follow them!" he barked to the assembled warriors, "Protect Cairne at all costs!"

The Horde marched after the tauren, following them through the barren lands. Through savage vegetation and rocky outcroppings, past trickling streams and over rugged hillsides. As they rounded some spiked rocks, a village emerged before them. Several tauren were locked in combat with the horse-men, though they only seemed to just be holding out. Cairne and Thrall both charged forward, closely followed by their warriors. The horse-men were quickly slain.

"We've arrived in time!" Cairne called to the warriors, "The next wave is advancing!"

Sure enough, yet more of the horse-men were charging up to meet them, bellowing obscene war cries. Orc, troll and tauren alike surged forward; arrows and spears flew through the air, impaling several of of the first wave, who were trampled by those behind. The horse-men also had some ranged attackers, wielding bows - they were crudely made, which was fortunate, because the horse-men appeared well-trained and would no doubt be deadly accurate were they wielding sturdier-made weapons.

Torgall grunted in pain as one of the arrows shot into his arm - fortunately, its awkward trajectory hindering its propulsion, coupled its crude design, and his leather armour meant it did not sink too deep. Pushing past the pain, he leapt forward with a furious bellow. One of the horse-men looked up, surprised, and a moment later its head was rolling away, still wearing a look of blank surprise. Torgall kicked the still-standing body as hard as he could, and it toppled into another of the horse-men. Charging forward once more, he swung the axe into a huge arc, cleaving off an arm of the horse-man he had knocked off balance. It gave a pained shriek and turned around, wielding a jagged stone blade, but pain and blood loss weakened it - it gave a half-hearted swung which Torgall parried lazily before sinking his axe deep into his opponent's chest.

"Lok-Narash!" Thrall bellowed over the din, "Here they come again!"

Looking up, Torgall saw yet more of the horse-men entering the battle. With them was a huge, hulking beast, wielding an axe as large as Torgall himself, who seemed to be a chieftain or something of the like.

"Ah," Torgall heard Cairne say in a low voice which seemed to carry over the battle, "they've brought a champion with them this time!"

A few grunts rushed up to meet the giant attacker, and were quickly defeated. The champion merely swatted one aside, slamming the orc with the flat side of the axe - the orc collapsed off to the side with a sickening crunch. The giant lifted the second orc as though he were a toy and threw him bodily over the heads of the attackers. The third grunt snarled and swung his axe, but the giant simply lifted his axe and brought it down with such force that he cleaved the orc in two. Torgall winced slightly - it was brutal.

Cairne and Thrall both seemed to notice this new and quite dire threat and both charged to engage the champion. Thrall summoned a crackling bolt of lightning and hurled it to the giant horse-man, who merely seemed to shrug it off. Cairne swung his warblade, which the giant blocked with his axe. The two locked weapons for a few moments, before Cairne, with a mighty bellow, wrenched his weapon free, knocking the horse-man off balance. He stumbled back and Thrall swung the Doomhammer, slamming it into the horse-man's arm; the resounding crack echoed over the entire battle. Cairne advanced to the injured champion and cleaved through its armour - it gave a shudder before collapsing forward.

With the champion slain, the remaining raiders quickly fell before the combined orc, troll and tauren defenders. Several tents had been trampled in the conflict, but most were still intact. The survivors stood panting, covered in blood belonging to themselves and their opponents. Breathing heavily, Thrall approached Cairne.

"Your tribe is safe, old one," he said, nodding respectfully.

"Thanks to you, young Warchief," Cairne replied humbly. "But the centaur drove off all the game in this region, and I cannot allow my people to starve," he continued sadly. "Soon, we must head north to the verdant grasslands of Mulgore."

"And you fear the marauders will overtake you," Thrall said wryly, his eyes narrowing. Cairne nodded.

"Yes. The devils' speed cannot be matched upon the plains."

Thrall considered a moment. "Well, if you tell us how to reach the Oracle you spoke of, then my brethren and I will escort you on your march," he offered. Cairne blinked, then bowed.

"I am intrigued by you and your people, young Thrall," he said graciously. "You are more than welcome to join us."

Cairne stepped away to count his tribe's losses and evaluate the damage to his village. Similarly, Thrall moved away to inspect the Horde and observe those assembled. Torgall turned to Greshka.

"Looks like we might be seeing why we came to this land," he murmured, "this Oracle..."

Greshka nodded. "But what of it?" she said quietly, "We're surrounded on all sides by hostile creatures, save these... tauren. I hope that we'll be able to survive together..."

They both turned to see Torgus hobbling up to him, supporting his weight on a makeshift crutch.

"Oi!" he growled angrily, "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to march with the Horde with a leg like this?!"

Torgall and Greshka both looked at one another, then burst out laughing.


	4. Two Sides of a Coin, part 1

**Chapter 4: Two Sides of a Coin, part 1**

Lucethious trudged about the desolate clearing, wrinkling his nose slightly at the surroundings. He had joined Proudmoore's expedition to this strange new land, and while it was certainly exciting being part of the pioneers to discover this never-before-seen place, it was far less exciting when it was merely a barren rock.

"What I wouldn't give to be back at Northdale," he mumbled to himself, "there's nothing here but strange half-man, half-animal creatures and barely enough vegetation to populate Manadawn Estate..."

He turned as a tiny, burning creature approached him.

"Ah, Belpep," he said, not without a little disdain; Lucethious had little patience for demons, "what does Yulgash require of me now?"

The imp bared his teeth and snarled. "Oi! Just 'cause I ain't as big as you don't mean I'm not as strong as you!" it said in a squeaky voice that forcibly reminded the elf of a goblin. "Come on! Put 'em up! Come on!"

The imp waved its tiny little fists in what it might have thought to be a threatening manner, but Lucethious merely sighed, and, casting a fire ward to protect himself from the demon's flames, bent down and grasped the imp by its ears. Belpep squeaked in shock and anger as Lucethious lifted him easily off the ground.

"Now, I'll ask you again," he said, staring directly into those glowing yellow eyes, "what does Yulgash require of me now?"

"Grargh! Lemme go! Lemme- gyah!" The imp snarled in pain as Lucethious' hand briefly glowed. "Okay okay, you win! Uncle!"

Lucethious dropped the struggling imp, who leapt up, wincing slightly and grumbling.

"Yulgash wants you to check his scrying spell," the imp said ruefully, still glaring at Lucethious, who smiled.

"There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?" he said kindly. The imp merely made a rude gesture and chattered something to itself in demonic. Lucethious, supremely unconcerned by this, followed the imp back to the main keep that the peasants had constructed with surprising swiftness. Of the expedition, there were several branches from the various nations - Gilneas, Stromgarde, Lordaeron and Kul Tiras. Lucethious had to confess himself surprised at Gilneas' decision to accompany the expedition - usually the nation chose to remove itself from relations unless there was a clear benefit for it.

Inside the keep, everything was bustling as everyone worked to keep maintainence going and areas well-defended. The strange horse-men they had encountered seemed even more eager for bloodshed than the orcs, if such a thing were possible, and the humans had found themelves immediately on the defensive since setting up camp. Fortunately, their dwarven allies, with a bit of ingenous engineering, had set up some cannon towers which worked wonders, and since then they had been able to clear the immediate area of hostilities.

The expedition had sorted those who had responded into warriors, rangers, priests and magisters. The priests tended to the wounded, unsurprisingly, while the rangers scouted about for the benefit of the expedition. The warriors included the footmen and knights, who staunchly protected whatever bases they dared set up in such a hostile land, and the magisters, Lucethious and Yulgash included, dealt with all things arcane. The magisters seemed slightly more prized over the other groups, and as such their quarters were in the main keep. Lucethious and Yulgash's quarters happened to be next to each other, and the two had developed a fast friendship - though Yulgash, being a less experienced mage, was sure never to forgo the opportunity to ask for Lucethious' assistance when he needed it.

Lucethious knocked quietly when he and Belpep had reached Yulgash's quarters. The imp, for his part, skipped over to a cushioned chair that Lucethious had conjured specifically for his own use when Yulgash (frequently) requested his presence. Sparing the imp a mild look of annoyance, who responded in kind with another rude gesture, Lucethious turned to the human, who was crouched over a bowl of water with a look of intense concentration.

"What is it, Yulgash?" he asked tiredly, "Are the ley lines congested again, or is it something else this time?"

Yulgash inched his head slightly from side to side, then motioned for the elf to come and join him. Lucethious glanced into the scrying bowl and recoiled a moment later.

"What?! Orcs? Here?" he cried, before striking himself with the palm of his hand, "Of course, the missive!"

Yulgash looked up from the image of an orcish stronghold, towers and all. "Missive? Proudmoore's 'invitation' mentioned nothing of this."

"No, not that," said Lucethious, pacing about the room impatiently, "before I received Proudmoore's missive, a call to arms was delivered to me from the Crown, saying the orcs had broken free from the internment camps and had fled out to sea. The Crown considered they may be regrouping for another assault at Alliance lands, but I thought nothing of it. This must have been where they fled to..."

He glanced at Yulgash who, he was slightly disappointed to see, was not particularly riveted by this information.

"Lucethious, there's more," he said. Lucethious raised an eyebrow.

"More? How could there possibly be more?" he asked.

"Lucethious, this... this is where the Stromgarde Brigade set up their settlement."

"What?!" Lucethious rushed over, looking down into the scrying bowl once more. Sure enough, at closer inspection those rocky outcroppings most definately were where the Stromgarde Brigade had chosen to construct their keep. He scanned the scene quickly, eyes drinking in every detail.

"This can't be right!" he hissed, "Re-cast the spell!"

Yulgash nodded, emptied the bowl and poured some fresh water in. He opened a vial of crushed amethyst and sprinkled them in, muttering some incantations. Belpep watched disinterestedly, instead plucking at some loose threads in the chair he was sitting on. As Yulgash spoke the final word of the incantation, the water shone a bright, brilliant blue before turning crystal clear. At another spoken command, the orcish scene returned. Lucethious slammed his fist against the desk.

"The entire Stromgarde Brigade! Were there no survivors?"

Yulgash shook his head. "There has been no report of orcs nearby - this must have happened very recently."

"Survey the surrounding area immediately!"

Yulgash nodded and complied - after scanning the nearby valleys, they found yet another orcish stronghold, this one even larger than the first and sporting black banners with grinning skeletal jaws.

"Wait a moment, I recognize that banner..." Lucethious said slowly. He crouched down, frowning at the orcish settlement. "That's... the symbol of the Warsong clan."

Yulgash looked up curiously.

"They're a fairly vicious clan... no doubt responsible for the destruction of the Stromgarde Brigade. We need to warn Proudmoore immediately."

Yulgash nodded, and they left the chambers, Belpep in tow.

* * *

"So, how long have you been a hunter?"

Greshka looked over her shoulder at the question, perking an eyebrow quizzically. Torgall puffed slightly, leaning on his axe.

"You know; scout, bowman, ranger, whatever you want to call it," he panted, elaborating. Greshka considered a moment before answering.

"In the Second War, when the Horde invaded the north, I was part of a raiding party into elven lands," she said, not a bit heavily - Torgall realized this might have been a more regrettable memory. "We slaughtered many of the elves, I'm ashamed to admit... But one thing that always struck me was the deadly accuracy that those elves had. The could fire and strike with blinding speed, it was uncanny, and they felled many of our number. I chose to emulate that ability."

She shrugged and returned to her 'guard duty'. Having conquered, dismantled and reconstructed a human outpost for their own uses, the Horde had begun gathering resources to proceed with their venture north. A gold mine was conveniently nearby, and lumber was plentiful, so they were taking their time. Torgall had offered to gather lumber, if only to be excused from combat, and Greshka hd offered to help 'guard the peons', which meant little more than 'stand around doing nothing'.

Torgall and Greshka were both astonished to find humans in this strange new land, but those same humans were battling Grom Hellscream and his Warsong clan. Thrall had urged them to assist, which they had done, and Hellscream had informed them after the battle that there were other human bases nearby, lead by a 'frail girl'. Thrall explicitly forbade the Warsongs and any other members of the Horde from provoking them, an order Torgall was only too happy to comply to.

He hefted his axe and gave it one more mighty swing - it bit deep into the wood, and there was a moment's loud creaking before the entire trunk gave way, and the tree crashed to the ground. Torgall clapped his hands loudly, and as though from nowhere, peons converged on the felled tree and began hacking it into planks and logs. Panting, Torgall walked over to Greshka.

"Rakaji is still scouting, then?" he asked, breathing heavily after the exertion. Greshka nodded.

"Thrall wants the Darkspears to see if there are any alternative routes north that would allow us to bypass the humans," she said, watching the peons carry out their task. "With any luck..."

"And how's Torgus' leg?"

"Better already, my friend."

Torgall and Greshka turned to see Torgus approaching them, smirking slightly. Looking down, Torgall saw the wound had mended superbly, and the orc was walking without giving any sign of the pre-existing injury. They clasped hands briefly and nodded to one another.

"I see the Shamans did their job well, then," Torgall said sagely. Torgus nodded.

"They were shocked that I had to march on such a leg, but the damage was still not too severe, and they were able to mend it," he said, slapping his leg where the injury used to be to accentuate his point. "Now... good as new."

As if to further accentuate it, he gave thrust his leg outwards, slamming it into a nearby smaller tree - the trunk cracked and splintered, sending smaller fragments flying everwhere, before collapsing to the ground. A nearby peon quickly began chopping it apart.

"So, since when did you become a peon?" Torgus asked with a raised eyebrow, noting that Torgall was wearing only a loincloth and leather sandals, and was again leaning on his axe.

"Since I decided to 'take leave' from battle," Torgall replied with a smirk. "After ousting the humans from their settlement, I think I'd rather just help gather some resources..."

"What kind of talk is that?" said Torgus, frowning slightly. "The humans are our enemies."

Torgall shook his head. "Those humans in particular had done nothing to provoke us - given Hellscream's predisposition towards them, I wouldn't be surprised if he initiated the conflict."

"You can't be suggesting that those humans wouldn't have attacked us first," Torgus snorted. Torgall shrugged.

"Maybe not. But if that were the case I would have no qualms in battling them. Attacking them unprovoked... I cannot do so in good consience," Torgall said solemnly. Torgus snorted.

"Good consience... unprovoked... no qualms," he muttered disjointedly to himself. Torgall ignored him, instead helping gather the lumber that the peons had produced from the labour, whistling tunelessly to himself. Greshka shrugged to Torgus and also began gathering wood. Torgus gave a half-hearted sigh and joined them, albeit grudgingly - this was work for drudges, not warriors.

The trio returned to the Horde base where other peons were busy gathering gold from the nearby and depositing it in carts outside the mine's entrance. Here and there, warriors were sparring, and others were keeping the newly constructed watch towers manned. As they returned their load to the war mill, a cheer rose up from several peons, having just finished constructing a great hall. At the sight of the great hall's completion, several of the peons mining scurried about gathering carts and hauling them to the hall for appropriate distribution. Amongst all this, Thrall observed all astride his large black wolf. He turned as some Darkspear trolls approached, Rakaji at the head.

"'Ey, boss-man, we spotted multiple human encampments nearby. There also be a goblin laboratory protected by a base to the north," Rakaji explained after a quick deferential nod. Thrall remained silent for a moment, evidently thinking.

"Interesting... if we can reach the goblins without incident, we can hire their zeppelins to fly us above the pass," he mused to himself. With a nod, he dismissed the Darkspears. As Rakaji turned to leave, he caught sight of Torgall, Greshka and Torgus, and loped over to them.

"'Boss-man'?" Greshka repeated incredulously, "Is that how you address our Warchief?"

Rakaji merely grinned in response. Greshka's eyes narrowed, but Torgall put a quelling hand on her shoulder.

"Easy, Greshka," he rumbled, "I'm sure Rakaji meant no disrespect."

"Nah, mon, none at all," the troll said with a mischievous wink before returning to his Darkspear companions. The moment he was out of earshot, Greshka rounded on the other two.

"The nerve of him!" she burst out, "Speaking to our Warchief like that! How dare he!"

"Yes, yes, but he did his job well and that's what counts," Torgus grunted in amused tones, waving a hand dismissively. Greshka gave him a withering look.

"Come now, you two," Torgall said, stepping between them and being forcibly reminded of having to break up an argument between children, "there's a campaign going on here and the Horde needs resources. Let's go get some more lumber."

At that, Torgus bristled. "I'm a warrior, not a lowly peon!" he growled. "I do not perform mundane tasks while others battle for honour!"

"Fine, you can be our overseer then," Torgall replied, shrugging. Torgus opened his mouth to respond but instead closed it and contented himself with an angry glare. When they had returned to the forest, Torgall moved from tree to tree, deciding which one to cut. Torgus observed him, wrinkling his nose slightly.

"And he calls himself a warrior," he muttered to himself. Torgall, however, was no longer listening but instead staring through the trees. What looked like a war party of Warsong orcs, led by none other than Grom Hellscream himself, was marching past.

"This doesn't look good," Torgall said quietly, picking up his axe and following through the trees. Greshka and Torgus glanced at one another, and followed.

The three stalked through the trees, not letting the Warsong orcs out of their sight for more than a few moments. This was quite unnecessary, however - they were all chanting battle cries which made Torgall feel quite uneasy and he hoped to the spirits that they were merely going after some centaur or pig-men. His hope was short-lived, however - the Warsongs rounded a new valley and, looking around the rocks, Torgall's heart sank: another human outpost.

"I can wait no longer," Grom Hellscream growled, "the humans... must be slaughtered!"

Torgall gaped as the Warsong orcs all charged forward towards the humans, who were so surprised at the sudden appearance of orcs that the first wave of defenders fell like cards. They were completely disobeying Thrall's orders!

"Come on," he cried to the others, charging not towards the Warsongs but instead toward the Horde settlement - the Warchief had to be informed.

"What - about - Hellscream?" Torgus panted as they sprinted along the sun-scorched rocks.

"The Shamans will revive him!" Torgall growled - he had no qualms over Hellscream being injured. The trio leapt over a few fallen boulders and around an overhanging rock, at which point the Horde base came into view. Thrall was overseeing the workers gathering resources and the warriors standing ready - he raised an eyebrow at the sight of three of his warriors sprinting towards him, one of them clad in nothing but an axe and a loincloth.

"Warchief! The Warsong clan is attacking the humans despite your orders!" Torgall gasped when they had reached him. In response, Thrall looked towards the valley where Hellscream had led his warriors - indeed, there was a plume of smoke rising over the ridge now. He shook his head.

"Damn it! There's nothing to do now but fight," he snapped angrily. "Tighten our defenses!" he commanded to the Horde, "I'll deal with Hellscream later..." he muttered to himself.

Torgall turned to the others. "This is madness," he said quietly, "now that the humans have been provoked it's going to be far harder to stave off fighting..." He gave a sigh. "Greshka, would you mind fetching my armour from the barracks? Torgus and I are going to do a quick scouting mission."

Greshka nodded and hurried off to fulfill Torgall's request - Torgall and Torgus, meanwhile, moved back in the direction of the humans. Nobody attempted to stop them; they were all too busy preparing for imminent attacks. Torgall and Torgus took up position between two large rocks jutting up out of the ground, slightly aside from where several dirt roads converged.

"Rakaji mentioned there were other encampments nearby," Torgall murmured. "These roads likely lead to them... we best keep watch."

They sat in silence, eyes peeled for any movement. Greshka joined them soon after, bearing Torgall's studded leather. He accepted it silently, nodding his thanks. He tried putting it on as quietly as possible, a difficult feat; his slow movements meant it took almost five minutes to finish putting it all on. He had barely sat down again when Torgus tapped him on the shoulder, nodding to their right.

Several human footmen were marching towards their position, followed by a pair of dwarves bearing rifles. The footmen bore an insignia of a gold anchor against a green background - the nation of Kul Tiras.

"I know that symbol," Torgus whispered, "that human nation accounts for much of the humans' naval forces."

Torgall nodded, not taking his eyes off the humans, and then motioned towards Greshka, then to a rocky overlook. Greshka gave it a half glance before stalking off and taking cover underneath - she was perfectly hidden. At the same time, Torgall and Torgus both began sneaking around the rocks until they were positioned exactly behind the humans.

"Now!" he bellowed, leaping out. The humans and dwarves jumped in shock, evidently not expecting an ambush. The dwarves fumbled foolishly and paid for it - Torgall swung his axe, almost bisecting the nearest, while Torgus careened into the second, slamming it with his fist - the dwarf gave a pained cry before crumpling, clearly unconcious.

The humans, however, were not as close, and now had a chance to retaliate. One glanced at the slain dwarf and with a cry of vengeance, charged forward, another close behind. Torgall brought his axe up, parrying the first blow and then ducked to avoid the second. Giving a graceful twirl for one of his stature, he swung the axe in a wide arc, only to have it blocked by a large shield. He gave an annoyed grunt before loping backwards to avoid another strike. Adjusting his grip on the handle of his axe, he then gave a reverse-swing so that the butt of the handle struck instead. The first human, not expecting such a strike, was slightly too late in blocking the blow, and the end of the handle slammed into his chin with a sickening crunch. Taking advantage of his stunned opponent, Torgall landed a killing blow before he could retaliate.

Torgus, however, was not taking such a defensive position, and instead charged straight for the remaining two humans with nary a pause after having dispatched the second dwarf. He swung his own axe once, twice, thrice, forcing the first human onto the defensive. The second came up from the side, swinging his blade at Torgus' arm, but it merely sank into the thick leather without striking skin. Torgus, noticing this, gave a hearty laugh, and with his right arm, grabbed the human's left. He gave a tremendous tug, sending the human flying towards him, while raising his left fist. The resulting crunch echoed over the sounds of metal striking metal.

The sides now even, Torgall chanced a glance behind him. To his dismay, he saw more humans marching towards the battle - any moment they would see their allies in trouble. He waved at Greshka, who readied her bow. A moment later he gave a grunt of pain as his remaining opponent took advantage of his distractedness and stabbed his thigh.

Turning towards his adversary, he gave an enraged snarl, raising his axe. The human, evidently expecting a heavy blow, raised his shield in preparation, which was exactly what Torgall wanted. Feinting his overhead strike at the last moment and silently thanking the smith who crafted his axe to allow such a sudden change in momentum, Torgall swiftly opted for a blow to the midriff - the axe cut straight through the human's armour and into his torso. The human gave a gutteral cry before keeling over. At the same time, Torgus gave a mighty horizontal swing, beheading his second opponent entirely, a sight which made even Torgall flinch slightly.

At this point, however, the other humans were within range and had spotted them. Greshka threw caution to the winds, firing off several arrows to distract them while motioning wildly that they should retreat - her arrows missed rather widely due to her haste, but did the trick - the humans turned as the arrows whizzed past them. They looked about, and while they weren't looking at her, she dashed out from her cover to join Torgall and Torgus.

"Into the wilderness!" she hissed. The others nodded in agreement, and together the trio fled into the nearby barren forest.


	5. Two Sides of a Coin, part 2

**Chapter 5: Two Sides of a Coin, part 2**

"We're too late!" Lucethious snarled angrily as Warsong orcs stormed into their settlement.

"Well, standing around staring won't push them back!" Yulgash said, rushing toward the battle, Belpep in tow; Lucethious followed just behind them.

It was as bad as he had expected - the attack was led by none other than Grom Hellscream. Lucethious had no doubt that they would see him again, even if he were slain here; just as the Alliance had priests to ressurect their fallen heroes who had only just recently fallen, he knew the Horde had their own spiritual leaders who could do the same. He did not quite see what the chieftain hoped to accomplish - the orcs were hopelessly outnumbered, and it seemed as though Hellscream was leading his troops to the slaughter.

Arriving at the battlefront, Lucethious was dismayed to see the first line of defenders had already been slain - no doubt they were caught by surprise by the presence of orcs, the expedition not having been warned of the threat. Already, however, footmen were re-forming ranks, and even some peasants had donned some chainmail and were running forward, wielding axes.

Lucethious focused his attention on the nearest orc, pointing his hand forward and chanting arcane formulae. Moments later, a missile of ice shot through the air, striking the orc squarely in the chest. He gave a pained grunt as he was knocked over double, before a footman charged forward and landed the killing blow. At the same time Lucethious magic-enhanced senses prickled the hairs on his neck, and he immediately gathered his concentration and literally _projected _himself forward - an axe sliced through where he was standing moments before.

Whirling about, Lucethious drew one hand back before thrusting it forward - it emitted a blast of frigid winds. The winds, however, did not reach far, as Lucethious' concentration was slightly marred by his abrupt blink forward, and the orc merely guffawed at the feeble spell - a moment later he howled as his armour erupted into flames. As he stumbled aside trying to put them out, Lucethious saw Belpep skipping away, cackling to himself, his tiny claws still burning.

Yulgash stood further away from the battle, eyeing one orc carefully. Closing his eyes and bringing his palms near to one another so they were almost touching, he began chanting under his breath. As he muttered the final words of the incantation, a ball of fire erupted between his palms, which he thrust outwards - the fireball spiralled toward the orc, crashing into him with such force that he was knocked to the ground, sending dust everywhere, and even singeing his surroundings.

Belpep, meanwhile, took a slightly more malicious approach. His small stature allowed him to maneuver unnoticed by the combatants over the chaos of the battle. He would sidle up behind a distracted orc, and put one tiny claw lightly on the boot or leg armour. Eyes closed, he would chant in demonic, the flames engulfing his body growing in intensity. After a few moments of this, the flames would spread onto the unsuspecting orc, who would realize the danger far too late.

Before long the attackers had been repelled. Lucethious was incredulous as to why the orcs had attacked in such small numbers; surely there were more, especially if they had destroyed the entire Stromgarde Brigade, so why throw meat into the proverbial grinder? He shook his head, frowning.

"I don't like this," he muttered to himself, turning to Yulgash and the assembled footmen. "Come on," he commanded. "We're going scouting. The rest of you, send messengers to the other settlements, with priority to Kul Tiras - Proudmoore is there with the Elite Guard, and she needs to be protected."

Several knights nodded and immediately charged off down the dust-covered road, disappearing up around the bend. Lucethious, Yulgash, the footmen followed as fast as their feet could fly.

"The Horde has apparently set up base where the Stromgarde Brigade were established," Lucethious explained to the footmen, "and the Warsong clan is also nearby, so we must be wary as we approach."

As they left the valley, Lucethious extended his senses magically - he did not want them walking into an ambush. The problem with this was that he had to walk slightly slower to maintain his concentration, and so the group had to slow their pace. Belpep, for his part, skipped ahead of the others, head constantly twitched this way and that, ever the alert scout. Lucethious wondered dimly if the imp ever sat still for more than a second.

After almost ten minutes of trudging down the dirt road, Lucethious paused, eyes closed and frowning. Yulgash stopped and looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

"Something wrong?" he asked. Lucethious shook his head very slightly, grimacing.

"Something is... interefering... with my casting," he mumbled, clutching his forehead slightly. He cleared his throat. "A magic ward... rather... painful..."

Yulgash raised an eyebrow. "But how can they interfering with us if they don't know that we're coming?"

At that exact moment, however, Lucethious' eyes snapped open and he cried, "It's a trap!"

At his alert, the footmen immediately raised their shields, and not a moment too soon - several arrows rained down upon them, lodging themselves in the kite shields. At first Yulgash expected orcs, but no - several pig-men burst from the surrounding vegetation, two armed with bows, the others wielding crude shortswords. A fifth was carrying what could easily be mistaken for an oddly-carved branch, were it not glowing an eerie green. It's wielder was dressed in tattered robes, and to complete Yulgash's assumption as to it being a spiritual leader, it was chanting in a grunting, guttural voice, its eyes glowing the same green as the totem it was carrying.

"There!" Lucethious snapped, "It's carrying a warding totem! That's what's blocking my magic!"

"Let me try!" Yulgash said, collecting his thoughts to prepare a magical barrage. As he muttered the final word of the invocation, however, a sharp pain flared in his head - it felt as though someone had driven a metal spike into his brain. He gave a cry of half-pain and half-shock, collapsing to the ground. Noticing this, the totem-wielding pig-man gave a grunting chuckle. Lucethious helped him to his feet.

"Each time we try to cast a spell, that ward will block us," he explained impatiently, "we'll be of no use in this battle."

"Speak for yourself!" squeaked Belpep, hopping towards the offending pig-man. The pig-man attempted to swat the imp with the totem but missed, Belpep being far too agile. The imp scurried this way and that, all the while dodging the pig-man's swings. After several moments of this, Belpep leapt onto the pig-man's stubby arm, and sunk his tiny but razor-sharp teeth into the pig-man's paw; it gave a squealing roar of pain, dropping the totem, which stopped glowing immediately. Seizing his chance, Yulgash focused his concentration once more and unleashed a torrent of flames - with a brief squeal, the pig-man was reduced to ashes.

"Nice spell," said Lucethious, nodding appreciatively. Panting, Yulgash straightened up.

"I think pain enhanced it," he replied, smiling slightly.

"Oh sure, no one thanks the little guy," Belpep grumbled. The two spellcasters were not listening, however, having returned their attention to the battle at hand. Without their spellcaster to aid them, the remaining pig-men were easily dispatched by the superior-equipped and trained footmen.

"These pig-men are getting quite bothersome," Lucethious said conversationally as he dusted himself off.

"At least they're prettier than the orcs," Yulgash sniggered.

"Hardly a bragging right," Lucethious said dismissively. "You four," he said, addressing the footmen, "continue with the patrol. Yulgash and I are going to scour the forests to make sure none of these pig-men interfere with our patrols."

The footmen nodded and marched off down the dusty road while Lucethious, Yulgash and Belpep recovered themselves. Normally a small skirmish such as that would be trivial for them, but their encounter with the totem-ward had proven quite taxing.

After a few minutes of recuperation, Lucethious stood. "Come," he said, beckoning toward Yulgash and Belpep, "if we're quick we might be able to rejoin the footmen."

Yulgash and Belpep both nodded, following the elf into the vegetation; Yulgash was sure to step on the totem as he passed it, snapping it in two. As he did so, a brief wave of the same green energy it was channeling before surged up and into the sky, fading from sight. Frowning slightly, Yulgash turned to Lucethious.

"Did you see that?" he asked, slightly confusedly. Lucethious nodded.

"When enchanted items are destroyed, they release their contained power in the form of magical dust or magical essences. Sometimes, if their power was stored within a core, it crystallizes and leaves a magical shard behind; the size of the shard varies based on how strong the magic in the item was. Whatever is left behind can be used to place an enchantment onto another object."

Yulgash pondered this as they trudged through the vegetation. Items re-enchanting items...

"It sounds like recycling magic," he said slowly. Lucethious smiled slightly.

"Yes, you could say that." He scratched his chin. "Did you not pursue Enchanting at Dalaran?"

Yulgash shook his head, only to have his face scraped with branches. Wincing slightly, he replied, "No, I never chose it as a topic, and... well, I was expelled before I could look into it," he mumbled, going slightly red. Lucethious tactfully ignored the last.

"What did you study, in that case?" he asked.

"I studied herbs and their magical properties," Yulgash said, glad to be moving away from the topic of his expulsion. "I also knitted," he added with a slight cough.

"Ah, a herbalist and tailor," Lucethious said sagely. Yulgash nodded, blushing slightly once more. Lucethious decided to drop the topic for the younger magister's sake.

Minutes passed in silence as they continued their venture through the undergrowth. It was quite uneventful - apparently, those few pig-men were the only attackers that considered themselves bold enough to attack an Alliance patrol. Lucethious maintained his extended senses, though still no threats presented themselves. Yulgash drank in the foliage, though he could discern nothing from Azeroth - it all appeared foreign. Nonetheless, he was sure to keep an eye on the details such as leaf shape or flower colour. Perhaps if they could observe some of the pig-men - they seemed quite primitive, after all - they would be able to glean some information on them; who knows what magical properties they may possess?

"Stop," Lucethious said suddenly, stopping abruptly. Yulgash stopped walking, and even Belpep managed to stop his fidgeting for a few seconds. The elf stood stock-still, slowly looking around. They had entered a clearing strewn with rocks and sticks, but which was otherwise quite bare. Lucethious was frowning - someone or _something _was nearby, and he was taking no risks.

All of a sudden he spun on the spot, hands extended and with energy crackling about them. Yulgash and Belpep ducked to the side, glancing behind as they did so - an orc was right behind them!

"Hold!" it barked in a guttural tone, and Lucethious was surprised enough that he cancelled the spell he was intending to cast. The orc was huge, though such a fact was unsurprising - he wore studded leather armour, carried a large axe with ease and had black hair streaked with grey. He was observing them slightly suspiciously, though Yulgash somehow got the feeling this was not a hostile encounter. After a moment or two, the orc looked behind him and called out something in his own tongue. Two more orcs emerged from the trees - a female with wild maroon-brown hair and gold noserings and carrying a bow, the other a grizzled old male with grey hair and scars, though he still carried himself with the presence of a warrior, and a veteran at that. Yulgash tensed - would a battle ensue? Before he could say anything, however, the first orc was speaking again, and in Common at that!

"I am Torgall the Wanderer of the New Horde," he rumbled, bowing slightly. "These are my companions, Greshka and Torgus." He bent down, extending a hand to Yulgash. After eyeing it for a moment, Yulgash took it and the orc hefted him to his feet. "We are seeking an Oracle to the north, and have become separated from our allies during a patrol."

Lucethious was still watching the three orcs with suspicion and not a little bit of hostility, and the older orc was looking back at them with a similar expression. The female was merely observing with a slightly curious look. However, Yulgash had little combat experience, and would much rather try to end this encounter diplomatically, and preferably with all working limbs.

"I am Yulgash," he said quickly, "and this is my friend, Noble Lucethious Manadawn. And this is my familiar, Belpep."

The three orcs glanced down at the imp, who raised a claw in acknowledgement. However, the female and older orcs both suddenly appeared angry, the former snarling, "A demon!" The first orc, Torgall, shot her a quelling glare before continuing.

"We understand that you have likely been the victims of one of the attacks of the Warsong-" Torgall began, but Lucethious cut him off.

"We've been under attack by _orcs_, you mean," he said coldly. "The Warsong clan is part of the Horde, so I see no difference."

"Our Warchief strictly forbade us to attack the humans," Torgall replied coolly, "and Hellscream will be disciplined accordingly."

Lucethious snorted. "Musn't be much of a _Warchief _if he can't even control his own troops."

He had most definately said the wrong thing. The older orc bristled at that, and the female drew her bow with an angered shout. Torgall, however, rounded on her.

"No, Greshka!" he barked in orcish, "This is _not _the time! We can end this without bloodshed!"

"That elf insulted Thrall!" she retorted furiously, trying to straighten her aim. "Let's see how he enjoys arrows of his own kind!"

"No!" he snapped, wresting the bow from her grip. She glared at him for a moment but stood down. Breathing slightly heavily, Torgall turned back to the others.

"I apologize for Greshka," he said, "she is hot-heated and holds our Warchief in great esteem. Though I must ask you not to speak ill of him in my presence," he added, narrowing his eyes at Lucethious, "else I shall do to you what I kept Greshka from doing."

Lucethious seemed more than prepared to retort, but fell silent at a look from Yulgash. The human nodded, thankful that a potential crisis had been averted.

"If I may," Yulgash said, "what is the Horde doing in this land? You said something about an Oracle."

Torgall nodded. "Our Warchief has had shamanistic visions from the elements-" Lucethious snorted but otherwise remained silent. Torgall ignored him "-of an Oracle who urged us to abandon the human lands and sail westward-" Lucethious stopped looking skeptical and started listening intently now. "-and so here we are. We were informed by an elder tauren that-"

"An elder _what_?" said Lucethious sharply, looking up.

"The tauren," Torgall repeated patiently, "they are the bull-men you may have seen."

"Bull-men," Lucethious repeated exasperatedly, "pig-men, horse-men, fish-men and now bull-men."

Again, Torgall ignored him.

"We were informed by an elder tauren that an Oracle lies to the north," he continued, now pointedly looking away at the infuriating elf, "but when we arrived here, we found the Warsong clan in battle with humans. And what's more, our scouts have informed us that your expedition has set up bases in the surrounding valleys."

Yulgash thought about this for a moment.

"Is that why the Warsongs attacked?" he said slowly, "To clear a path for the Horde to proceed through?"

Torgall shook his head.

"As I said, we were forbidden to provoke the humans," he explained. "Our Warchief has been seeking a peaceful method of proceeding up the mountain. Our scouts informed us of a goblin laboratory-"

As he spoke, a huge shape cast a dark shadow over the two groups. Glancing up, Yulgash made out a large balloon-like vessel gliding through the air. Torgall looked up and smiled.

"-that lay to the north," he said. "And such concludes our meeting - we must return to the Horde and join the march northward. But know this, human - the Horde has no quarrel with the Alliance in this land. We will fight you only out of necessity."

With that, the orcs turned and left. Yulgash was slightly taken aback at this - as quickly as they had appeared, these orcs had left. He stood there, pondering.

"An Oracle to the north?" Lucethious said, "Is that what we're here for as well? Visions?"

Yulgash, however, was not listening.

"We will fight you only out of necessity..." he muttered, and turned to Lucethious. "Did he say that the laboratory lay to the north?" he asked.

Lucethious nodded. A second later his eyes widened in horror.

"The expedition!" they both shouted.

* * *

Yulgash was not quite sure how they had found their way back so quickly - all he knew was that the base was in ruins. Many buildings were burning or demolished entirely, and the survivors were severely shaken. Surprisingly, there were few dead and wounded.

"What happened?" Lucethious kept demanding. From what they could gather, the Horde stormed in, cutting a swathe through the base, rocking the defenders like a hurricane that made the intial Warsong attack laughable. What confused everyone was that the Horde did not seem concerned with killing - they merely destroyed what stood in their way, ignoring all else. Most peasants and other civilians were unharmed, and Lucethious couldn't help being reminded of the missive from the Crown describing the attack on Hasic.

"You know what this is about," Yulgash muttered, "the attack, I mean. Torgall was right. The Horde does not wish for conflict with us - they grabbed the zeppelins and left."

"I do not care what or why they were here," Lucethious said stiffly, "they attacked us and we must respond accordingly."

"Lucethious," Yulgash said quietly, "be reasonable. The orcs do not wish to fight us - they have other concerns. They didn't even attack the other encampments-"

"Says you," the elf interrupted. "And who's to say they won't come after us after they attend to these 'other concerns'?"

"You simply wish to be angry," Yulgash sighed, which he found odd considering how friendly the elf's demeanor usually was. "Very well, I shall leave you to brood. But know this - the we will likely cross paths with the Horde again; and do not be surprised if we may even be seeking the same thing. After all," he said, glancing back at his scowling friend, Belpep in tow, "there's two sides to every coin."


	6. The Direhoof Tribe

**Chapter 6: The Direhoof Tribe**

"WAIT! Wait for us!"

The three orcs pelted down the dirt road in hot pursuit of the zeppelins, which, while floating lazily ahead, still managed to outpace them. The trio waved their arms frantically, shouting and bellowing, but to no avail; before long, the airships had drifted over a ridge and out of sight. They slumped over, defeated.

"It's... no... use..." panted Greshka, drenched in sweat from exertion, "they're... long... gone..."

Torgall growled furiously to himself - their detour into the forest to escape the second Alliance patrol left them wandering about trying to find their way back to the roads. By the time they had found their way back to the Horde settlement, however, they found the zeppelins lifting off, and they futilely chased them for several minutes before conceding defeat.

"What will we do now?" groaned Torgus, massaging his feet. Torgall heaved himself to his feet - his legs felt like lead. Leaning on some rocks, he thought for a few moments.

"We'll return to the base," he said at last, "the structures are still up. Hopefully we can find out a way to follow the rest of the Horde. And I get the feeling not everyone was moved - Thrall still needs resources for the push northward, so surely some orcs must be nearby gathering..." He rubbed his legs absent-mindedly. "It's just a matter of finding them..."

"We cannot remain at the base for long," Greshka said abruptly. Torgall looked at her, and she elaborated. "After Hellscream's initial attack, and then the follow-up strike to get to the zeppelins, the Alliance are going to be out for blood. It won't be long before they retaliate."

Torgall nodded, conceding the point. Together they returned to the Horde base, which felt quite eerie now that it had been abandoned - the towers stood, banners waving silently in the wind. Most of the weapons had been taken, as they would be needed for the march northward. Torgall gathered what supplies remained and they congregated in the great hall.

"So..." he said, which echoed slightly around the room. A couple of roughly-drawn maps of the continent detailing what the Horde had traversed were scattered on the tables, some with arrows drawn on them pointing northward into blank parchment. This was unhelpful; they still had no idea how to progress. With the Alliance blockading the passes, and without equipment to scale said passes, their chances of following the Horde were miniscule.

"Here," said Greshka suddenly, emerging from rummaging in a box of papers and carrying another sheaf. She slapped it down onto the table they were sitting at. Glancing at it, Torgall saw it was like the others, with an arrow pointing northward, but this one had another arrow - marked 'Warsong, lumber'.

"It seems Hellscream has had his comeuppance for his transgressions towards the Alliance," she said, smirking. Torgall burst out laughing.

"The Warsongs have been reduced to _manual labour_?" he guffawed, laughing himself into a coughing fit. After he caught his breath he chucked, "I bet Hellscream loved that..."

Greshka gave a slight giggle and even Torgus smiled a little. They sobered up quickly, however.

"Well, this gives us something to follow," Torgall said, straightening up. "We'll follow them through and join up with them, so as to rejoin the Horde-"

He was cut off by the sound of a deep, echoing horn. The others immediately stood, axe and bow at the ready.

"Alliance horns?" Torgus growled, gripping his axe handle tightly. Torgall shook his head.

"No... too deep, and guttural," he muttered, listening carefully, "the horn that sounded that was definately not human- or elf-made, it sounds far too crude..."

"Natives, then," said Greshka, grinning, twanging the string on her bow. Torgus, too, smiled widely, eager for battle. Torgall merely drew his axe in dignified silence.

"To battle, then," he simply said, pocketing the map. The trio left the great hall, out into the bright sun and dust-covered earth. Greshka dashed over to one of the abandoned towers, and was back a moment later.

"Centaur; two score of them," she said, eyes blazing. Torgall nodded - difficult odds indeed.

"It'll be like fighting gnolls," he said, and she grinned. "We'll try to funnel them between buildings so they'll find it more difficult to flank us. If we find ourselves being overwhelmed, we'll simply have to break off the attack and make for the forest," he said, and the other two nodded.

The trio crouched between the great hall and barracks, Greshka turning back and forth on the spot, bow held ready with an arrow notched. There was a thundering of hooves - several centaur charged past one end of the 'alley' they were crouched in. Greshka tensed momentarily, but Torgall shook his head slightly. Again, they thundered past, this time from the other end. Torgus growled quietly, but Torgall motioned for him to be silent. The centaur continued galloping while the three orcs hunched over, tense and waiting. After a few minutes, the sounds of crunching and thudding rang out, and Torgall knew - they had begun demolishing the abandoned settlement.

Moments later, a grotesque human-like head looked around the corner. It gave a look of surprise, and Torgall gave a tiny nod - a moment later an arrow was embedded right between the eyes, the look of shock still on its features. The centaur quivered for a moment before collapsing to the ground. Torgall gave a brief smile of approval before frowning once more at the end of the 'alley'.

It was not long before another noticed the fallen first. He was charging past and glanced down, and started to do a double-take - his hesitation cost him his life, and he collapsed to the ground futilely attempting to stem the blood gushing from a wound in his neck, courtesy of another incredible shot from Greshka. Another two were felled before at last the centaur finally realized what was happening, and began milling out from both ends.

"Now we're in the thick of it," Torgus growled, back-to-back with Torgall while Greshka stood next to them, bow aiming back and forth.

"Wait for them to make the first move," Torgall murmured, "we don't want to split apart or they can get in behind us..."

The centaur paced back and forth, glowering and snarling their inarticulate language at the three orcs. After a minute or so, two both charged forward, bellowing warcries. One was carrying a short stone sword, the other wielding a slightly larger stone axe. Torgus, though he was facing the other direction, reacted so blindingly quickly all the combatants were momentarily stunned - whirling about on the spot, he snatched the sword from the first centaur and, before it could even register it was disarmed, he had hurled the weapon with such force back at its former wielder that it sank in straight to the hilt, into the centaur's chest. It's eyes bulged momentarily and it looked down with a look of blank surprise at the sword handle protruding out of it before collapsing.

Torgall was so stunned by this that he likely would have been slain by the other centaur, had the second not been just as surprised as he. Gathering himself before his opponent, Torgall rushed forward, cleaving through the centaur's loose cloth armour; it fell to the ground with a pained cry, and Torgall silenced him before he could rise. A moment later he leapt to the side as a bolt of lightning crackled through the air and blasted a small crater in the ground. Glancing up, he saw a female centaur carrying a staff and wearing what appeared to be a ceremonial cloth hood. She was chanting something in her own tongue, and as she spoke another bolt of lightning crackled into life between her hands.

Before she could finish the incantation, however, Greshka loosed several arrows, impaling the female several times. She gave a furious snarl, hurling the bolt of lightning, but such was her last - the arrows sunk deep, and she keeled over.

"Behind!" Torgus barked suddenly. Torgall whipped about to see three more centaur charging at them from the other side. Greshka reacted first, firing off several more arrows. A few sank into the first centaur, and while they did not slay him outright, he was slowed by the pain. The other arrows struck a second centaur on the arm, and the shock caused him to drop his weapon. Torgus capitalized on this fatal mistake immediately, leaping forward and cleaving the centaur from shoulder to the midriff where man became beast.

Torgall followed up behind, lunging at the third, uninjured centaur. This one, like the earlier centaur he battled, was wielding a stone axe. Both combatants swung at one another, and axe briefly clashed with axe. Grunting, Torgall pulled back, causing the centaur, whom was still putting strength in his swing in an attempt to overpower the orc, to stumble forward due to the sudden removal of the inertia in front of him. Torgall swung again, but the centaur raised his axe just in time - a move which ultimately proved futile, for as Torgall's axe again met the centaur's, his superior-crafted weapon shattered the stone head, sending rock fragments everywhere. The centaur's face twisted into a furious snarl before Torgall removed it from the shoulders entirely. At the same time, Greshka released another volley of arrows, felling the first centaur who was intending to revenge himself upon her.

"There are too many," Torgus said, panting slightly as the three regrouped, the centaur stlil snarling and slavering at each end. As he spoke, two more charged forward, one from each end; Greshka unleashed another salvo of arrows at one while Torgall struck out with a counterattack at the second; both hit the ground heavily.

"It won't be long before they simply all charge at once," Torgall replied. At the same time, the barracks next to them creaked ominously. The group glanced at it apprehensively - before them, the wooden supports began splintering, and they could see the stone walls starting to shake.

"They're going to bring this entire building down upon us!" cried Greshka. Torgus nodded grimly.

"That settles it, then," he said. "You two... follow after."

"Torgus, NO!" Torgall bellowed, but it was too late - the older veteran had already charged forward, bowling over several centaur blocking their path.

"MOVE!" he roared at them, and they complied immediately. As they ran past the centaur, Torgall swung at one with his axe while Greshka sliced at two others with her swords. Torgus stood among three, dodging and parrying with speed and agility that belied his old age. As Torgall and Greshka rushed past, he kicked out at one, slamming it to the ground; he punched another one in the midriff and it was bent double; and he slashed wildly at the third and, while none of the strikes landed, he swung so viciously the centaur actually retreated.

The trio sped through the settlement; around them, buildings were burning or collapsing while centaur milled about them. Some of the beasts happened to look their way, but adrenaline was pounding through the orcs' veins, granting them speed that outpaced even the horse-men's gallop. Moreover, the centaur seemed more interested in looting, plundering and wanton destruction, so three fleeing orcs were of little import to them. Again, the trio leapt into the vegetation, leaving the abandoned Horde settlement behind them.

"I would have thought you consider fleeing dishonourable, Torgus," Torgall said, smiling wryly as they ran.

"It will be impossible to serve the Horde with honour if we are dead," the older orc replied simply, "and moreover, I hardly consider twenty-to-three even odds."

Torgall chuckled, conceeding the point. They eased their pace slightly, now that they were clear of the Horde base, and soon after they found a nice clearing that still had some green vegetation therein, along with a small creek that was trickling merrily. The group collapsed gratefully on the grass, tossing their armour aside, sipping at the water and enjoying the respite. The past several hours had proven exhausting.

Torgall was unsure whether or not he had dozed off in the afternoon sun - it was wonderfully comfortable to just lie there, leather armour aside and allowing the sun to warm them. The sound of the native wildlife, the wind rustling the trees and the trickling of the creek was positively blissful. He had sighed happily - perhaps there was peace to be found in this strange land.

What he _did _know, however, was that a deep horn had blared, sending him into a state of awareness. Around him he heard hooves thudding on the ground, and he stood, axe held at the ready, eyes darting as he saw dark figures shifting among the trees. Greshka and Torgus were by his side, bow and axe out and ready for battle. Torgall was tense - his armour was still slung over a tree and he would have no time to equip it, and his companions, too, were unarmoured. Were they to fight their way out of this merely with their weapons?

His fears were confirmed as several centaurs burst into the clearing, bellowing and shouting, waving their crude weapons. Torgall gave a challenging warcry in turn, but felt blood pounding in his ears - the situation looked extremely grim. Again, the horn sounded, and the sound of thudding hooves grew louder. Torgall was starting to feel slightly sick now - they were going to be butchered like animals. However, at the sound of the horn, the centaur looked behind them, some curious, some nervous. Torgall gave no pause to spare a thought at the strange reactions - he was too busy being concerned as to how he and his friends would find their way out of this predicament.

The horn sounded a third time. The thudding grew yet louder. Torgall was sweating slightly, and Torgus was growling a chant to his ancestors to speed him to the spirit world. Was this going to be their end?

With a tremendous crashing, several trees splintered and toppled, striking the ground with a shockwave that sent dust, leaves and splinters flying through the entire clearing. The three orcs shirked from the force, covering their faces, and the centaur, too, cowered slightly at the blast. Torgall glanced up, and immediately his spirits rose - standing behind the fallen trees were not more centaur, but _tauren_, one of which had a large, intricately carved horn strapped to a belt.

There were only two of them, but any allies were appreciated here. The first had dark black fur with striking white horns, one which had a gold ring. He was lightly armoured in a leather hauberk and leggings, and he carried a mammoth-sized totem which he carried with ease. He wore what Torgall took to be a ceremonial leather cowl, along with a fur drape and a wolf head on one shoulder, the mouth open in a snarl. Closer inspection revealed the drape was in fact the wolfskin, with the preserved head resting on his shoulder to serve as an intimidating shoulderguard.

The second tauren was smaller and of a slightly less muscular build; Torgall realized that this must be a female. She had softer features and light amber fur, rather like wheat. She had shorter horns than the male, and rather than white they seemed light brown to match her fur. It was she who had the horn strapped to her belt. The female donned a brown and green robe which matched the vegetation surprisingly accurately, and she carried a wooden staff that was entwined with leaves and vines - Torgall was surprised they were not withered, but instead healthy and green, as though they were growing _from _the staff. She seemed to have a tranquil aura about her, as though the air was calm and animals were at ease in her presence.

As Torgall attempted to process the information of these new arrivals, the tauren and centaur had already engaged in battle. At first Torgall was bemused as to why the tauren would do battle, as there were only two of them and five centaur. He realized quickly, however, that they were no strangers to battle, and indeed no strangers to unfair odds, it seemed - the male charged in first, swinging the totem with all his might. It struck the first centaur with the force of what sounded like a thunderclap, sending the beast flailing through the air until he collided with a tree, nearly snapping the thick trunk in two.

The female moved with what seemed like an almost feline grace, chanting an invocation in a melodious voice. As she spoke, her hands glowed green like the flora sprouting from her staff, and as she finished the incantation, thick, viny roots burst from the ground, wrapping themselves around two of the centaur's legs with startling swiftness, shackling them to the ground. Torgall and the others could merely gape at this spectacle - clearly, the natives of this land wielded tremendous, yet alien, powers.

The remaining two centaur both charged at the first tauren, swords raised for attack. The tauren slammed one of his hooves on the ground, giving an earth-shaking stomp - the nearer of the two centaur was literally thrown off his hooves and fell to the ground. The second one stumbled for a moment before resuming his charge. The tauren lowered his totem and held out both paws - he mumbled several words, and flames erupted from his paws, hurtling into the centaur, which gave an enraged scream and tried to put out the flames. Utilizing this distraction, the tauren gave a backbreaking slam with the totem before turning his attention back to the second centaur, who had risen from the hoof stomp.

Seeing his slain companion, it gave a bellowing warcry and charged forward, waving its sword wildly, bloodlust afire in its eyes. Before it could reach the tauren, however, a blast of blinding white light, not unlike a falling star, struck the centaur squarly in the head - it abruptly fell silent, simply falling over. Torgall glanced about, trying to find the source of this strange astral spectacle, and saw the female tauren's paws were glowing faintly blue-white. Torgall barely had a chance to marvel at this before a sharp pain drove into his shoulder - looking down, he saw a crudely-fletched arrow buried deep in his forearm. He glanced up and saw that the centaur who had been chained to the grounds by those startlingly large roots had drawn bows and were taking advantage of the orcs' bewilderment.

Torgall and the others rolled aside as the centaur fired several more arrows at them, and chancing another glance he saw the roots receeding back into the ground, freeing the beasts from their confinement. To Torgall's dismay, the centaur chose not to attack the tauren, but rather the unarmoured orcs. Unfortunately, as they were several paces away from the tauren, they would likely have slain them before the tauren could come to their aid.

Abruptly, however, one of the centaur suddenly slowed. Surprised, Torgall tried to find the cause of this strange turn of events, to see that the centaur had suddenly been frosted over slightly. Moments later the tauren was right behind him, totem raised - he brought it down with a sickening crunch. The second centaur, on the other hand, was upon him , sword prepared to strike. He raised his axe in preparation to block the blow, but he was on the ground at an awkward angle - one strike would be sufficient to knock the weapon out of his grip, and then the victor would be evident.

Before the remaining centaur could swing, and indeed before anyone else could react, the centaur suddenly stiffened, giving a pained scream. Torgall watched, shocked, as tendrils of green lightning writhed about the beast. As they faded, it rounded, snarling and gnashing its teeth in fury, to face the female tauren who was smiling ever so slightly. Raising its sword with a scream of bloodlust, the horse-man charged, but he wasn't even halfway there when a column of burning blue-white fire erupted in the middle of the clearing - the centaur screamed as its fur burst into flames, and it crumpled, a blackened, burnt corpse.

Torgall sat, stunned after this battle, staring at the broken, beaten and burnt bodies of the centaur, still in shock that two tauren had single-handedly dispatched five centaur. He looked up to see the tauren staring at them, smirking slightly. Glancing down, Torgall remembered, flushing, that he was not wearing his armour, and judging by the looks on their faces, Greshka and Torgus had realized this as well. The trio scrambled back to their armour, throwing it on in silence punctuated only by the wildlife and the creek. Only after they had straightened up, trying to appear as dignified as possible, did either of the tauren speak.

"I am Fenris Direhoof," the male rumbled, "and this is my mate, Kunasha."

The female bowed deeply, saying in a soft voice, "It is an honour."

Torgall returned the bow to both tauren. "They honour is ours," he said respectfully. "We thank you for saving us, and owe you a great debt indeed."

The male waved a paw, saying, "It was of no matter," he said unconcernedly, "the centaur are sworn enemies of us tauren - we were simply repaying a simple blood debt. They transgress upon my peoples' ancestral grounds, desecrating our holy lands merely with their foul presence. Speaking of," he added, suddenly stern, "I would know where your people have come from, ...?"

"Torgall," the orc said quickly, "and these are my companions, Greshka and Torgus. I shall tell you all you wish to know, though I request that we tend to our wounds and recover - we have had a difficult day."

"Of course," the female, Kunasha, said quietly. "Please, that is easily remedied," she added, extending a paw. Torgall followed her gaze and realized she was referring to the arrow wound, which was still seeping blood. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the shaft and tugged hard - he grunted with each pull, the pain intensifying - but after a few tugs, the arrow tore free from his flesh, and the wound began bleeding anew. Wincing slightly, Torgall exposed the wound so Kunasha could observe it.

"Hmm," she grunted thoughtfully, reaching towards the wound. Torgall almost flinched - it was still fresh - but stopped himself; any self-respecting warrior should show an endurance to pain, especially in the face of new allies. The tauren's paw brushed over the blood, fingering the wound slightly. Torgall expected the pain to be agonizing, having someone tampering with an open wound, but surprisingly the pain eased, instead - before his astonished eyes the skin mended, the blood siphoned away, and the wound was gone. He quickly dropped to one knee.

"I thank you, wise one," he said respectfully, "the elements do not always answer the call of a shaman."

Kunasha smiled slightly at Torgall's awe. "Nay, I am no shaman; that would be my mate," she said, nodding to Fenris. "I do not serve the call of the elements, but the Earthmother herself - it is by her will that I obey. In return, I am granted some of her powers over nature."

Torgall, Greshka and Torgus were unsure what to make of this - Kunasha's powers seemed very similar to those wielded by shamans in the Horde. Before they could enquire further, Fenris and Kunasha were already turning to leave.

"Come," Fenris commanded, "you will need rest before you continue on your search."

The trio obeyed, not a bit curious as to how the tauren knew of their intentions, but Torgall mused that if he truly was a shaman - and his abilities in his fight with the centaur certainly led credence to that - then he likely knew far more than he let on. The orcs and tauren marched through the dense forest, and while the trees seemed so tightly together that they would barely let a gnome through, let alone an orc or tauren, as they drew closer they seemed to part easily that the entire group could pass through without any strain. Torgall reasoned this would have to be Kunasha's doing.

As they passed through a particularly dense cluster of trees, Torgall's eyes widened with a gasp. Before them stood several dozen tauren, all varying shades of fur, but all bearing a similar banner - two totems crossed with a dark wolf head across them. It occurred to Torgall that he had not yet seen so many of the bull-men together in one spot; their size would normally fill an area to beyond cramped, yet the clearing in which they stood seemed to house them quite comfortably.

"The Direhoof tribe welcomes you," rumbled Fenris, chuckling at the dumbstruck looks on the orcs.


	7. Awakeeahmenalo

**Chapter 7: Awakeeahmenalo**

Torgall grunted as he shifted the weight of the stag he had slung over his shoulders, so as to avoid the blood trickling down his neck. It was a large beast, and would likely feed several of the tribe; he felt a slight twinge of satisfaction knowing he had slain it personally. Hopefully, the other hunters - longrunners, Fenris had called them - would also have captured some sizeable game, so that none would go hungry this eve.

As he thought of this, Torgall glanced up - the stars were barely visible through all the trees. He found this quite odd, as the coastline where the Horde had initially crashed was rather barren and desolate, but as they had moved inland he couldn't help but notice that the environment had become progressively more lush and fertile. Torgall had reasoned this had something to do with the tauren, as the bull-men, while appearing primitive, had proven to be wise beyond imagining with a great reverance for nature. Torgall doubted that any of the other natives, undiscovered or not, would hold nature in such high esteem - the centaur and pig-men had proved that already.

He approached the thicket of trees where he knew the glade in which tribe was congregated and bowed his head in deference - in doing so, he acknowledged the sway the very earth held over his own perceptions, and permitted him to pass for how he approached humbly. Should the trees decide he should not be shown the glade, and had he not known of it, then he would likely never find the glade; and if he did attempt to force entry, he knew that nature would respond in force. Kunasha had warned him of such acts.

As he passed through the trees, he heard them creak back to form the unassuming wall of wood, and he lay the stag on the ground before him, a slight grin on his features. Greshka clapped while Torgus thudded him on the back, and Fenris nodded in approval.

"You have done well," the tauren chieftain rumbled, amusement glittering in his dark eyes at Torgall's evident 'triumph'. "My longrunners, too, have returned with their quarry - we will feed well tonight, and in doing so give thanks to the gifts given to us by the elements and Earthmother. The cycle of rebirth continues."

He put a thick arm around Kunasha and together they moved closer to a bonfire that had been lit while Torgall was out hunting. For his part, Torgall dipped his finger in the neck wound of the deer he had slain and wiped some of the blood across his forehead - the mark of a kill. Greshka and Torgus grinned at him.

"Still living the old traditions," Greshka said, looking at the blood.

"They shall never die so long as we continue to practice them," he replied.

"A fine kill, my friend," said Torgus, observing the deer, "Large, healthy... this should feed several tauren alone."

"Speaking of, what other beasts do we have?" Torgall asked. His companions led him aside, showing him several other wildlife that had been slain: boars, swan-sized birds, fish ranging in size from salmon to sharks, bear and - to Torgall's surprise - wolf.

"So there are wolves in this land," Torgall mused quietly to himself. Wolves were an almost sacred animal to the orcs, revered for their cunning, savagery and tendency to fight well as a group. But moreover, wolves were prised for their loyalty. To befriend a wolf as an orc was quite an achievement, and a rite of passage not every orc was capable of.

"Come on!" said Greshka brightly, pushing some quail into his hands and dragging him closer to the bonfire. It was only as she became fully illuminated that Torgall realized she was no longer wearing studded leather armour, but cloth with tribal paintings and embroidery.

"Where did you-?" he started, and she grinned.

"Kunasha gave it to me," she explained, "it's a sign of bonding amongst the tribe."

Torgall looked over the clothing, impressed. To those who would not appreciate tribal designs, the clothing would appear simple and primitive, but there was a tribal beauty that Torgall knew could not be replicated by 'civilized' races.

As they ate, the tauren brought out some long horns and deep drums and began playing a deep, pounding rhythm, while others began burning some incense-like herbs. Torgall looked enquiringly at Fenris.

"It is a song of praise," he explained in his deep, gruff voice. "We are giving thanks to our ancestors and the Earthmother."

Torgall nodded, chewing slowly and wondering whom this 'Earthmother' was. He then noticed Fenris' wolfskin once more.

"Fenris," he said slowly, and the tauren chieftain regarded him with an appraising stare, "why do you wear that wolfskin? I cannot help but feel it marks your status as a shaman."

The tauren laughed softly to himself. "Nay, young one," he said, resting a large paw on Torgall's shoulder. "While the wolf is a revered spirit to shamans among the tauren, it is not to do with that. No, amongst the tauren, we honour the works of the Earthmother and all that she creates and gives to us through the Great Hunt. When we slay a beast, we give thanks in its passing for our benefit and are sure to make certain nothing is wasted. Bones are carved into tools, weaponry and even jewelry; fats and oils are used for lamps and fuel; skins are woven into cloth and armour. And the meat is, of course, eaten.

"But tauren do not truly join the Great Hunt until they have slain their first creature on their own. Young tauren will join hunting parties to learn of the Hunt, but eventually, as our rite of passage, we are to choose, track and slay a beast of our own desire. I chose the wolf, which among my people symbolizes resourcefulness, ferocity and the ability to work in a group - wolves hunt with deadly efficiency in packs, after all - and all of which are traits that we tauren can liken to."

As Fenris took a deep swig of a strange concoction of berries and roots from a carved wooden jug he was holding, Togall looked around at the assembled tauren, frowning slightly - they were either dancing a slow, methodical dance to the tribal music, or talking quietly, or seeing to it that animal parts were not wasted. He could certainly see how the tauren were resourceful, and he had no doubts that they worked in groups, but he had much trouble seeing them as ferocious.

"Your people do not seem aggressive," he said, picking his words slowly so as not to offend. Fenris chuckled slightly.

"Normally we are not," Fenris admitted, "but against our enemies we fight tooth and nail. The centaur, for example."

Torgall remembered Fenris' battle with the centaurs, and nodded grimly. The tauren, he realized, were a force to be reckoned with, and noting their huge forms and bulging muscles, even among the females, Torgall made a mental note never to purposely anger one. He turned as Fenris resumed his tale.

"Ahem... yes, so, where was I... Ah, yes. For my rite of passage I chose to track down and slay the elusive Awakeeahmenalo, which means _Stalker of Mists_ in my native tongue. Yes, it is a mouthful for foreigners, I've seen others try to pronounce it with amusing results. Being newcomers to this land yourselves, you do not yet realize but we are on the edge of a twilight forest called Ashenvale. It is said that the spirits of the land and forests dwell here primarily, at the base of the sacred Mount Hyjal. This forest sees seasonal wet weather, and on the edge where the forest meets a land bathed in eternal autumn, there is a great river which reaches all the way from the north down to the sea; we call it the Southfury River.

"During the wet seasons, the moisture from this river, coupled with its nearness to the oceans, means that huge clouds of fog form and descend upon the edge of the forest, seeping in, obscuring and hiding all. It is then that Awakeeahmenalo comes out of hiding and begins his hunt. In the annual mists, it is easy for creatures, be they tauren, centaur, quillboar-"

"Quill_what_?" Greshka interrupted, looking up from some stag she was busy devouring.

"Quillboar," Fenris repeated patiently. "They are an ancient race, said to be the offspring of the great Aggamaggan-"

"Aggamawho?" Torgus repeated blankly.

"Aggamaggan," sighed Fenris, "the great boar demigod who fought in the War of the Ancients. He was slain by many demons, and where his blood touched the ground rose great, thorny vines that lie far south from here. It is from those vines that the quillboar are said to originate."

Torgall, Torgus and Greshka realized that these quillboar were the pig-men that they had frequently encountered, but the latter two had noted something of far more import - _demons_. Torgall did not understand, but they apparently did: had this land been tainted by their presence before? Fenris was speaking once more before they could dwell upon the implications, however.

"So... hrmm... yes, that's right. Awakeeahmenalo easily finds stray creatures, be they beast or otherwise. He would stalk them, for how long would be his to decide. And at the right moment, he would pounce - to know when Awakeeahmenalo struck would be a pained cry that would sound sharply through the mists, followed by silence as he would retreat silently with his prize.

"I took it upon myself to hunt this cunning predator, who, unlike other wolves, chose to hunt alone. I think it was for that unique trait that drew me to that wolf. I remember it as clear as now; I was given a spear, and a loincloth. That is all we are allowed to wear during our rite - to accept the fury of the elements and the wrath of the Eathmother should they deign. I moved slowly through the mists, and it was then which I realized a fatal mistake that the prey of Awakeeahmenalo must have always made - to rely on sight. We are easily blinded by our own sight - as soon as we lose it, we are lost entirely. But I realized that I could not rely on my most obvious sense, and turned to my others. A true hunter uses all of his senses. I smelt the mists for his scent; I was always listening. I felt the ground for tracks, and even tasted the air. Yes, we can taste the air," he added, smiling slightly at the orcs' skeptical looks. "Anyone can if they try hard enough.

"For hours - perhaps days, it is easy to lose track of time in the mists - I walked on, always on the alert for Awakeeahmenalo. It soon dawned on me that the key was not to be the hunter, to but to be the hunted. I allowed myself to appear clumsy and unwary, stumbling aimlessly through the mists. And before long I heard him - a low snarling that seemed to emanate from all around. I cautiously raised my spear, and not a moment too soon - a huge, silver-grey figure leapt from the mists. I lifted the spear to block, rather than attack, my reflexes were too slow for a balanced strike.

"The wolf was huge, and I was momentarily stunned by its sheer size. Jowls slavered above me, teeth bared and snarling. With great effort I thrust the spear foward, throwing the beast off me. Of course, he did not let that stop him, and landed gracefully on all fours, taking another savage leap at me. This time I was prepared, however, and stepped to the side, carefully swinging the spear out so that the spearhead grazed the beast's side - I remember his savage yowl as it sliced into him. When he turned to face me a second time, there was a savage bloodlust in his eyes that turned my blood cold.

"Of course, I could not allow fear to overcome me or I would be overwhelmed in moments. Gathering myself, I took the offensive, charging forward with my spear held aloft. Awakeeahmenalo nimbly leapt to the side, droplets of blood flecking the ground as he did so. The wound was doing its work well - as he landed, it was rather clumsily, and I knew that my debilitating strike was succeeding. I charged a second time, this time with more confidence. The wolf stood his ground, determined to make his stand. Awakeeahmenalo opened his savage maw, teeth bared, and I plunged the spear forth with a cry to the ancestors to speed him to the spirit world - and so he was slain, mouth open in a defiant snarl, and I honoured him justly."

Torgall and Greshka watched, riveted, as Fenris hefted his totem, which was lying nearby, and displayed it to them. Closer inspection revealed that some of the tribal symbols were not carvings at all, but instead bleached white...

"Awakeeahmenalo's bones," Fenris said, both somberly and proudly. "I carry with me the spirit of the wolf."

The two orcs nodded, staring at the tauren and his totem in awe. A moment later, Greshka started.

"Where's Torgus gone?" she said sharply. The pair looked about the camp, which was turning slightly hazy over the smoke from the burning incense. Torgall took a deep breath, and immediately felt his body slacken and relax - the herbs were immensely soothing. Shaking his head slightly, he took another look.

"There," he said, pointing through the haze at a hunched figure next to a tauren. Torgus was alternating between taking swigs of the same strange juice that Fenris was drinking, and taking deep puffs from two very long pipes which were emitting a strange smelling brownish-grey smoke. He was talking to a female tauren who was giggling slightly, and every so often he would laugh raucously.

"...in the name of the ancestors does he think he's doing..." Greshka muttered angrily, storming across the campsite to confront him. Fenris chuckled and Torgall smiled slightly.

"Might I enquire what it is that you and Torgus are drinking?" Torgall asked with a smirk. Fenris laughed a little more before replying.

"It's a strange concoction that our elders devised many, many years ago," he explained, "that induces euphoria and dulls the senses. Of course, after drinking it for a time you build a tolerance for it."

Though Fenris had not given a name, Torgall was certain that the tauren, it seemed, were no strangers to alcohol.

"And the pipes?" he asked.

"There is a herb we have that... well, it is rather... _unique_, for want of a better word," Fenris said with a wry smile. "It has various effects... giddiness... visions... loss of balance... We generally don't consume it because prolonged use can have very bad side-effects, and sometimes the experience can be... well, terrifying. But some people take to the herb very well... your friend included, it seems."

Torgall and Fenris both burst out laughing while Greshka berated Torgus, who seemed far too inebriated to understand what she was talking about. Their laughter subsided as she returned, and they grinned at her as she sat down, scowling.

"So," Fenris said, sounding slightly more businesslike, "where were you travelling to before you were ambushed by the centaur? My longrunners reported a settlement under attack by the centaur but there were no signs that a battle had taken place - the buildings were demolished but there were no corpses that belonged to your people."

"That is correct," said Torgall, and explained how the Horde had travelled northward in zeppelins without realizing some were left behind. He further explained that the Warsong clan had been delegated to gather resources.

"...but the centaur happened upon us while we were still resting; you arrived shortly thereafter," he finished, not without a deferential nod. Fenris did not answer immediately, sitting in silence and rubbing his furred chin thoughtfully. He looked over the map Torgall had brought with him, smirking slightly at the crude diagram of the land the orcs had chartographed.

"You say your people are harvesting resources for your war effort, correct?" he said at last, and Torgall nodded. "Hmm... your people will obtaining their lumber from Ashenvale..."

"Did you not say that Ashenvale is where the spirits of the land dwell?" Torgall asked, frowning. Fenris nodded, and Torgall and Greshka glanced at one another uneasily.

"It is not simply the spirits of the land that safeguard the forests," Fenris added in a borboding whisper, "for the Kaldorei - the Children of the Stars - also make their home in these lands. And I warn you, they do not take kindly to transgressors."

Again, Torgall did not like the sound of this. Hellscream would no doubt be tearing the forest apart and carving it into lumber even as they spoke - these Kaldorei may even now have their sights set on the orcs and eradicating them.

"We will have to depart as soon as possible, then," Torgall muttered to Greshka, who nodded. Clearing his throat, he turned back to Fenris. "Can you tell us the quickest route to this forest?" he asked.

Fenris took the map from Torgall and picked up a lump of charcoal from the bonfire. Using a rock, he ground it slightly until it was sharpened, used it to draw several lines and circles on the parchment, and handed it back.

"If your companions have moved in the direction I suspect they have moved, they will likely be near the Southfury River as a water source. It is also rich in fish and six-legged beasts we call crocolisks, so food would be plentiful," he explained, pointing at the various lines and arrows he had drawn. "These spots are my guesses as to where they may have chosen to establish themselves," he added, pointing to a few circles. Torgall gratefully took the map back, thanking the chieftain.

"We will depart in the morning, then," he declared, "the Warsongs, while able fighters, will likely need every strong arm they can get."

Fenris nodded. "A wise choice," he agreed, "the Kaldorei are fierce fighters, and defend their forests with fervor almost unmatched in these lands. But be wary, green one - they are mystical fighters who use the powers of the land itself to slay their enemies. To underestimate them would mean certain death. And I applaud your choice to move by day - the Kaldorei are nocturnal, hunters of the night; indeed, their vision is sometimes impaired during the day."

"Aside from that, I think Torgus will need some time to recover," Torgall said, grinning. Fenris chuckled quietly, watching the grizzled orc as he stumbled awkwardly to his feet, attempting to join in with a ceremonial dance; he was quickly dragged away by a furious Greshka. Torgall realized that the orcs and tauren were likely to become steadfast allies, and the thought pleased him - it seemed they would need all the allies they could get in this strange land.


	8. The Forests of Ashenvale

**Chapter 8: The Forests of Ashenvale**

Torgall slept, and as he slept, he dreamt. He was walking through the lush plains of Farahlon: his home. He scarcely remembered the landscape for what it once was - green, verdant, sunny, full of life. He knew that in reality, Farahlon was a memory of the past, and had been ripped apart by Ner'zhul's insidious magic. Torgall approached a trickling stream, looking cautiously into its waters - and recoiled in horror and disgust. A thousand orc faces stared up at him, lifeless and devoid of honour, filled with depravity. As he watched, the waters turned red with blood, and he could hear screams of terror around him. He watched, transfixed, as the world around him turned red, fires leaping into the skies, orcs butchering defenseless draenei, the young, the old, the sick... he was running, running in fear, in disgust, in horror at what his people had become...

And then there was his clan. They were standing there, proud and noble, welcoming his arrival with smiles and laughter. He briefly felt calm and content - but then the cold realization hit him. He knew where he was once more. Slowly staring behind him, he saw the Horde, marching and demanding to sate their bloodlust. He watched as his clanmates drew their weapons, prepared for their last stand. He tried to shout, to tell them to run, to flee, but no sound came out. He saw himself, ready to die for his honour, his father, his brother...

All at once he was awake. Wide-eyed and sweating slightly, Torgall breathed heavily as he straightened up. It took him several moments to realize where he was - the Direhoof camp. He was not on Draenor... he was not in Farahlon... he was not with his clan. Still panting, Torgall looked around slowly. Greshka was lying nearby, still wearing the robe Kunasha had given her. Torgus was in a deep sleep, having passed out after consuming too many mind-altering substances. Around him, the tauren were sleeping surprisingly silently.

"You seem troubled, Torgall," a deep voice rumbled, and he jumped. Turning, he saw Fenris observing him, brows knitted slightly.

"Just a... a dream," he replied, trying to maintain composure. Fenris continued to frown slightly.

"It seemed more than a dream, young one," Fenris continued. "You seem to be tormented by demons of your past..."

"It's nothing," Torgall said shortly, not wishing to discuss the matter further. Fenris surveyed him, then sighed and looked skyward.

"Look, greenskin - An'she, the second eye of the Earthmother, rises."

Torgall briefly stiffened, but realized Fenris was not using the term 'greenskin' offensively. Following the tauren's gaze, he saw a bright crescent of light as the sun rose over the treetops.

"It is dawn," he murmured to himself, straightening up. "We must depart, then."

Quietly, so as not to disturb the Direhoof tauren, Torgall gently shook Torgus and Greshka awake. They got to their feet, rubbing their eyes blearily.

"Thankyou for your hospitality," Torgall said quietly, extending a hand. The tauren looked at it quizzically. Smirking, Torgall took Fenris' paw in his other hand, placed it in his outstretched hand, and shook it. Fenris let go, staring to and fro from his paw to Torgall, an eyebrow raised.

"May your axe arm be strong," Torgus grunted somewhat weakly; Torgall saw his eyes were rather bloodshot.

"Mayhap we'll encounter one another again," Fenris said, bowing his head slightly. Torgall, Torgus and Greshka returned the gesture, and together they departed the clearing.

At last, the base had been established and the push for deforestation had begun. The lumber would help fuel the war effort, both metaphorically and literally, but Grom Hellscream was not pleased by the thought. In contrast, the Warsong chieftain was furious.

"Damn Thrall for sending us away!" he growled angrily, seething to himself. "He chooses to use his greatest warriors for manual labour? He'll be lost without me."

The chieftain glared about the camp they had set up, brooding quietly and quite oblivious to the beauty of the forest they were carelessly hacking apart. Before he could devote any further energy to the matter, however, one of his grunts approached.

"Chieftain, there's something strange about these woods. It's too... quiet. Almost like we're being watched," the grunt said uncertainly.

"Are you all afraid of spirits now? There is nothing here but ancient trees and shadow," Hellscream retorted dismissively. The words were barely out of his mouth when the trees around them echoed with quiet whispers, some sounding angry, others amused. The voices faded into a chillingly sinister laughter. The grunt's eyes widened.

"You hear that? This place is haunted! I fear no living enemy, but my axe cannot cleave fleshless spirits!" he said quickly. Grom, however, was in no mood to listen to the snivelling fears of his underlings.

"Still your tongue and get to work!" he snapped. "The Warchief's new settlement will require a great deal of lumber. This section of forest must be cleared."

The grunt nodded and left to continue assisting the others. Grom bared his teeth angrily at the thought - the mighty Warsong clan reduced to deforestation. Shameful.

This was going to be a long campaign.

"These forests seem almost... unnaturally quiet," Greshka muttered. Torgall and Torgus glanced back at her, and she raised her voice slightly.

"I said, 'These forests seem almost unnaturally quiet'," she repeated. The other two looked at one another.

"There does seem to be surreal element to this place," agreed Torgus, glancing around slightly uneasily. Torgall shrugged.

"I'm sure there is nothing to be concerned about," he said, waving his hand slightly. The others did not seem assuaged.

"What about those Kaldorei that Fenris mentioned?" asked Torgus warily. Again, Torgall shrugged.

"We'll simply have to cross that bridge when we get there," he replied, turning and continuing through the undergrowth.

"And what if we're lost?" demanded Greshka. Torgall merely waved the map in response, and the other two could do little more but scowl and follow him.

In truth, Torgall did feel slightly uneasy in the forest - the was all manner of colours of flora, and yet it seemed to be devoid entirely of animal life. At times Torgall thought he could see pairs of glowing yellow eyes staring at them from the bushes, but a second glance revealed brightly-coloured berries or sap from the plants. He had a feeling that the magical properties of the forest that Fenris warned them about was playing tricks on their mind, creating illusions and distorting the very reality of their surroundings.

"Stop," Greshka hissed suddenly, holding out a hand. The other two stopped dead in their tracks, axes already drawn. Greshka, however, shook her head and crept forward, swords and bow untouched. She ran her fingers along the trunk of a tree, then the leaves of a bush, then the petals of some flowers, all the while muttering to herself. Torgall and Torgus glanced at one another, uncertain as to how to respond to this sudden strange activity.

After a few long minutes of this, Greshka suddenly grunted in amusement, her hand clenching on something. She motioned at them to crouch down, and she pulled. A moment later, a log seemingly materialized out of nowhere, swinging from vines! Fortunately, it soared clear over their heads and merely crashed harmlessly into a nearby tree, doing little more than send splinters and dust everywhere. As it settled, the orcs straightened up, coughing.

"Someone is setting up traps in this territory," said Greshka unnecessarily. "I won't be surprised if we find more."

"That seemed to be a very basic trap," said Torgall, frowning slightly. "Do you think that was set by the Kaldorei?"

Greshka shook her head. "If they're anything like Fenris described them, then no," she said as they continued through the forest. "It was far too primitive. I expect-"

She stopped talking abruptly, suddenly stiffened and alert; a moment later she had her bow drawn and nocked. Torgus and Torgall, for their part, again had their axes drawn and were staring around warily. Torgall opened his mouth questioningly but Greshka motioned for them to be silent. She slowly revolved on the spot, but her companions could sense nothing - it seemed as though she could hear something they could not.

All at once, they were surrounded by _bears_.

Torgall blinked - no, not bears. But they were extremely similar. Once more, this strange land was showing creatures they had never dreamed of, this time bear-men. They had ursine heads with snarling, bloodthirsty faces. Their bodies were rather short - taller than a dwarf but shorter than a human - but very muscular. However, like the other strange man-animals the orcs had encountered in this land, these creatures also appeared primitive, but not of the same wise-primitive that the tauren embodied; these bear-men seemed more akin to the quillbar. Several were wielding basic stone axes and clubs, while two others carried feathered staves. Strangely, none appeared to be wearing any form of armour save feathered armbands.

The orcs tensed, prepared for battle - yet the bear-men did not attack. One of them, a particularly ferocious looking one wielding a heavy axe, stepped forward and snarled something incomprehensible at them. The trio glanced at each other warily; at least these bear-men appeared to be approaching diplomatically, but their countenances suggested the situation could turn violent without warning.

Torgall decided to make responding move.

"We do not wish to battle-" he started, but as soon as he started talking the bear-mens' eyes widened, and they growled softly to one another. Torgus raised his axe in preparation to strike, but Torgall shot him a look. The bear-men, fortunately, were too distracted at the green foreigners, and did not notice the aggressive movement. Torgall turned to continue the 'negotiations'.

"We are merely trying to find our brethren-" he attempted to continue, but again the leader snarled, waving the axe threateningly. Torgall, too, was now gripping his weapon in preparation for battle - this conversation was not quite going the way he intended.

The leader advanced, weapon raised, the others close behind. Torgall gritted his teeth - so much for ending this peacefully.

He was not about to give up, though. In one fluid movement, he snatched the leader's weapon with one hand while shoving it back with the other. The bear-man stumbled back into two of its brethren, knocking all three over.

"Stop this!" Torgall barked, throwing the stone axe to the forest floor. The others simply glared at him, teeth bared. Torgall glanced at Torgus, twitching his head slightly. The older veteran stepped foward, weapon held aloft. One of the bear-men growled menacingly, but Torgus merely retored with an intimidating shout. The bear-man stood, rooted to the spot in fear while a few others stepped back worriedly. Perhaps we can end this simply through bluff, Torgall thought wryly to himself - more and more he found himself trying to end things diplomatically - or the next best alternative.

The leader seemed to be scruitinizing them. Torgall waved his axe threateningly but made no aggressive moves - Torgus, too, remained battle-ready but otherwise still. After several long moments, the leader growled in an almost rueful tone and gestured towards the forest, leading his companions away. Torgall and Torgus relaxed, though Greshka continued to eye where they had departed with suspicion. Her suspicion was confirmed when a moment later the leader re-appeared amongst the bushes, glowering at them. The three tensed, but the bear-man merely gave an expectent growl and made a paw-movement that almost resembled a beckon.

The orcs glanced at each other uncertainly. When the other two did not move, Torgall chose to break the silence and follow the bear-man. The other two gave each other a half-glance before following.

The bear-men were out of sight but not out of earshot. Their bulk and lack of subtlety meant that there was plenty of rustling and, at times, crashing from up ahead which left a fairly wide, cleared path in their wake. The orcs followed, uncertain but not unarmed; they kept their weapons drawn at all times and did not relax in the slightest. There were too many hostile races in this strange land for them to give any the benefit of the doubt at face value.

After quite some time of this trekking, the hubbub up ahead began to ease. Ever suspicious, though they themselves would have called it cautious, Torgall, Torgus and Greshka rounded a dense cluster of trees to see the group of bear-men staring at them warily, though at the sight of their drawn weapons and the looks on their faces, the leader gave a throaty growl that could barely pass for a chuckle.

"What's that sound?" Greshka said suddenly. Despite the potential threat of ambush, Torgall and Torgus looked away from the bear-men, listening. Indeed, they could hear something... the thudding of axes on wood, the creaking of falling trees, and, most familiarly, the grunting of orcs hard at work.

The bear-men had guided them to the Warsong camp.

Torgall stepped forward and dipped his head respectfully. "Thankyou," he said to the leader in particular. It merely growled and waved its thick, furry arm in the direction of the noise. Departing quickly, though not without one last suspicious glance form Greshka, the orcs hurried away toward their brethren. The trees seemed far larger in the part of the forest; it was no surprise that the Warsongs had chosen this area to begin their operations.

The orcs were very busy in their work, and as such barely gave the three a second glance as they surreptitiously joined in with the crowd. While depositing what few belongings they had, Torgall noticed that several bear-men that bore striking resemblance to those that had guided them here were bound and rather battered, wearing pained expressions at the Horde's deforestation efforts. Noting this, Torgall nudged Greshka, who in turn nudged Torgus.

"It looks like this is why those creatures were initially so hostile to us," he murmured, "and perhaps they led us here for a reason after all... I was wondering why they chose not to kill us; they heavily outnumbered us, and we _were _mostly bluffing. Somehow I get the feeling they want something in return..."

"You can't be serious!" hissed Greshka. "Hellscream is just over there, he'll flay us alive if he catches us freeing prisoners without his permission!"

"Hellscream is too busy sulking and brooding to even notice that three orcs who aren't even from his clan just walked in unannounced," Torgall replied dismissively, "I doubt he's going to notice us releasing prisoners."

When Greshka continued to look skeptical and Torgus uncertain, Torgall continued, "If it eases your mind at all then I'll wait until he's truly distracted. But I'm going to repay their favour, with or without your accord."

He turned away from his companions, striding over to the bound bear-men. He was joined by them a moment later; he was only mildly surprised by this, assuming that either his determination or their loyalty was enough to sway them. That, however, was not the matter at hand. The bear-men looked up at them, growling slightly at his approach, but they quickly fell silent when his intentions became apparent.

"We need to make it look convincing," he muttered to Torgus and Greshka. "Act like you're guarding them."

They nodded and pointed their weapons at the captives, who in turn looked both shocked and furious at this apparent betrayal. Torgall, however, motioned for them to be silent and gestured in a manner that he hoped convey the message that they meant no harm.

"Just... play along," he ordered, knowing full well that these creatures could not understand his tongue but hoping it would somehow work nonetheless. Surprisingly, the creatures obeyed, acting defiant but not enough to make Torgall's job overly-difficult. After a minor scuffle, the three led the bound prisoners away from the camp under the pretence of execution.

"So far, so good," Torgall murmured, pulling them along with rope while Torgus and Greshka 'stood guard'. The peons and grunts barely paid them any notice, and Hellscream, mercifully, did not look their way; it seemed one of his grunts was attempting to dissuade them from their deforestation for one reason or another. Together the group made its way to the edge of the camp and through the trees which had not yet been felled.

The others were already awaiting their arrival. Upon their appearance a quiet, so as not to attract the Warsongs' attention, but jubilant growl echoed around the group. Greshka cut the ropes binding the bear-men with her swords and they stumbled forward gratefully, momentarily off-balance from the sudden freedom of their limbs. The leader broke apart from the group, approaching Torgall. Greshka and Torgus briefly tensed, but Torgall quelled them, knowing that there was an uneasy truce between the two parties.

"...M...Me..." the leader growled incoherently. "Meil... Meilo..."

It shook its head and tried again.

"Meilosh!" it growled, jabbing a paw at itself. "Meilosh!"

The orcs looked at each other. Greshka said thoughtfully, "I think he's calling himself 'Meilosh'," to which the bear-man nodded energetically. He then pointed at his companions.

"Timmer... more... timmer-more!" he said excitedly, trying again to communicate. The orcs looked at one another again, even more confused now.

"Timmer-more?" Torgus repeated uncertainly. "Or is it saying timmy-more?" Frustrated but not beaten, the furbolg began gesturing at a nearby tree, then at its own mouth; this only served to confuse Torgus and Greshka further, but Torgall had an idea.

"Timmer-more..." he said slowly, and then it clicked. "Timbermaw!" he cried, and Meilosh nodded even more vigorously than before. He had one last attempt left...

"Urb... urbo... furbo... fur-bolg... fur-bolg," Meilosh grunted, attempting with difficulty to wrap his tongue around the orcish language. This time, however, he was more coherent.

"Meilosh, the Timbermaw furbolg," said Torgus, and the other furbolgs growled in pleased tones. Torgall had realized that these creatures, furbolgs as they had called themselves, must have encountered the Warsong orcs under less than optimal conditions for diplomacy. With any luck, after this show of goodwill, the furbolgs would avoid the orcs and vice-versa. With one last respectful bow from each party, the furbolgs departed, leaving another trail of crushed vegetation behind them.

As the three orcs returned to the Warsong camp, Torgall knew that the furbolgs would likely not trouble the orcs any more, and hopefully the same could be said for the Warsong clan. He was relieved by this thought - he felt apprehensive enough at the thought of facing the Kaldorei Fenris had warned them about, and the fewer enemies they had to worry about when the time came, the better.


	9. The Spirits of Ashenvale

**Chapter 9: The Spirits of Ashenvale**

They were surrounded.

Torgall didn't even know where they had come from. All he knew was that they were attacking hard, fast and cold. They moved like shadows, disappearing and reappearing from the trees with unmatched agility. The orcs were initially pushed straight back into their base, confused and stunned at these alien attackers. It was not long, however, before the peons had fled back to the warmills and burrows, to be replaced by the Warsong grunts, axes drawn and ready for battle - and battle was _exactly_ what they got.

Torgall, Greshka and Torgus watched in awe as the first line of grunts clashed with the wave of attackers, and all present were stunned to see they were a vivid, deep purple. Tall, elegant and slender, they wielded wicked tri-blades, or else fired bows with astounding, and deadly, accuracy. They had long, flowing hair of almost every colour imaginable, and had an etheral beauty to them which was thoroughly belied by the fury with which they were attacking. Though the Warsong orcs did not know their enemy, Torgall, Greshka and Torgus knew what they were facing.

The Kaldorei.

As they rushed to join the battle, Torgall heard a grunt cry, "Women... they're women!", and then Grom Hellscream's voice carry above the din: "Yes. They almost look like elves, but they're far too tall, and far too savage!" Torgall glanced over his shoulder, where the older orc was nonchalantly carving up the opposition, Gorehowl slicing and cleaving, the tribal rings and holes embedded in it causing an eerie whistling shriek that pierced even over the sounds of battle. The chieftain was cutting a veritable swathe through the Kaldorei, and while their skills were almost enough to give him pause, it seemed as though nothing could stop the older warrior.

Torgall charged towards the nearest Kaldorei, bringing his axe up for a diagonal slice from the waist. The female danced gracefully back before retaliating with blinding speed; instinct and luck, more than anything, made Torgall bring the axe handle up to block the strike. The tri-blade clashed with the metal-reinforced handle, and sparks briefly showered them both. Torgall snarled, baring his teeth, and gave a forceful shove, causing the elf-woman to stumble back. Torgall intended to press the advantage, but he had barely moved two paces when his opponent was back on her feet and once more on the offensive! Startled but not defeated, Torgall tried a different approach.

No longer intending to strike with brute force, the orc altered his stance slightly; he was now on the defensive, but would be able to strike with far more accuracy and efficiency. As his opponent attempted to strike him at chest-height, he deftly parried the blow, following up with retaliatory strike; she was unprepared for such a swift counterattack and performed a clumsy dodge. As before, she recovered with abrupt ease, but Torgall was not surprised - he simply anticipated her next move. He did not have to wait; a diagonal cut threatened to separate his upper body from his midriff. Clenching his teeth and hoping the axe would withstand his next, if foolhardy attack, Torgall thrust the axe handle in between two of the blades. He grunted as one of the blades bit into his flesh, but did not relent, and gave a mighty pull. Sadly, the attack did not have quite the effect he had hoped; under normal circumstances, the weapon would have been wrenched from her grasp, but she held fast. The attack did have some merit, however - the woman was pulled forward and, unable to counteract the sudden change in momentum, thrown to the ground.

Torgall did not give her a third chance to recover, and ended their skirmish swiftly.

Around him, the Warsong orcs were fighting tooth and nail, bellowing warcries and all wearing expressions of savage pleasure. The opposition was tough, but they were tougher, and the attackers had fewer numbers. To his right, Greshka was firing and reloading furiously, helping fight back the Kaldorei archers, while Torgus was fighting with all the brute force and cunning of a Dragonmaw orc. At last, the attackers had been repelled, the remaining women seemingly evaporating into the night, and the orcs were allowed a brief respite. Panting and seeking something to wrap his arm in, Torgall half-strode, half-staggered up to Greshka; he could feel the adrenaline starting to ease, leaving him feeling slightly drained and exhausted.

"Some fight, huh?" she said, smirking. Torgall nodded.

"Fenris was not exaggerating when he warned us of the Kaldorei," he commented, watching as the Warsong orcs tended to their wounds and assessed the damage. "These elf-women are... deadly fighters."

The two glanced up as Torgus approached them, blood-splattered and grinning broadly.

"Incredible!" he cried, viewing the carnage with awe and amusement. "I've not been in such a fight in..." He paused. "...I can't even remember! These elf-women are like nothing I've yet seen!"

"Even Hellscream was impressed," Greshka pointed out, and the other two nodded in agreement. It was Torgall who brought up the more pressing problem.

"The only question is - how long can we last against them?" At the others' blank stares, he continued. "There's only the Warsong clan here; the rest of the Horde is off searching for this 'Oracle'. There could be any number of more of the Kaldorei, and they're fierce fighters from what we've seen. We'll only be able to last for so long..."

The others glanced uneasily at these grim words; the odds, in hindsight, did look rather stacked against them. It was therefore with great trepidation, reluctance and a huge lack of enthusiasm that they had to join a patrol of Warsong orcs scouting the area for more of the elf-women. Their only consolation was that Hellscream himself was with the party, wishing to battle more with the Kaldorei and to see their fighting styles first-hand. In addition, they had brought a pair of wolf riders who wielded long, wicked blades that could slice through even reinforced wood with ease. Several peons trailed behind, should the need arise for construction or harvesting of resources. The orcs stalked the forests, some eager for more bloodshed, others with looks of apprehension that indicated that they would much rather be back at the lumber camp or, better yet, still with the Horde. Orcs had no qualms about battling enemies honourably, but to be slain in a cowardly ambush would be most shameful - and as they were very inexperienced with these forests, an ambush was all too likely.

As they prowled the forest, they noticed all manner of strange wonders. The plants were of every and any colour possible, and bore fruit of delicate beauty. The forest canopy above obscured the light that was able to filter through to the forest floor, bathing them all in a dappled, purple glow from the upper branches. Strange blue glowing lights hovered amongst some trees, sparkling and providing extra illumination to complement what little light made it through the dense vegetation above. Torgall paused, inspecting one. It floated lazily around the base of a tree, shining brightly. As he watched, it seemed to glow more in intensity...

And he suddenly recoiled, alarmed and surprised at what he saw. For the briefest of moments, the glowing light had coalesced into a shape... the shape of an masculine, elf-like face. It had glanced at him for the barest of moments, but the mere event in itself was enough to startle the orc. He approached cautiously, uncertain what to make of it. Gently, he reached out with his axe and gave the blue light a prod...

...and with a whistling hum, it flared brightly and disappeared into the trees like whisps of smoke. Torgall stared into the darkness where it had disappeared, utterily bewildered. Deciding it was best not to stray from the others, he quickly re-joined the group, though not without a suspicious glance behind him. The forest was eerily silent, and he would not be surprised if the Kaldorei would pick them off one by one.

He was wrong in that account, however. Instead a group of them attacked, not by foot, but from the air. They were riding strange beasts which appeared slightly similar to gryphons, but instead of being part-eagle and part-lion, these obscene beasts were more part-raven and part-stag, antlers and all. The Kaldorei rode on their backs, raining arrows.

"Chieftain, the warrior women have returned on flying beasts!" one of the grunts cried unnecessarily.

"Hrm. They won't last long after our wolf riders have ensared them!" Grom said, and he waved his arm. At the unspoken command, the wolf riders drew back and, with a mighty toss, hurled nets at the gryphon-like mounts. With pinpoint accuracy, the ropes wrapped themselves around the beasts' wings, and they swiftly plummeted to the ground. They were no less deadly on the forest floor, however; their wickedly sharp talons gutted the first two grunts foolish enough to get too close.

The wolf riders, however, were another matter. Kicking their heels into their mounts, they charged forward, blades held aloft. As they neared the winged mounts, they lowered their blades horizontally; while the Kaldorei had sense enough to duck, two of the beasts were not so quick, and their beaked heads hit the forest floor with a resounding _thud_, blood trailing on the grass. Enraged, their riders fired off several shots at the offenders, but they travelled widely and missed the wolf riders by a large margin. As they were distracted from this, the grunts converged on the remaining archers and dispatched them, and the attack was over abruptly - evidently, the Kaldorei did not expect the orcs to use such tactics.

Unfortunately, no sooner had they just caught their breath when yet another group of the women attacked, this time two mounted on huge, snarling panthers. A few orcs stepped back, particularly the peons, who scrambled for the trees, but most rose up to the challenge. The wolf riders were the first to strike, lunging for the panther-riding warriors, who, rather than strike with their weapons directly, chose to throw them at their opponents. Uncannily enough, the weapons did not continue flying if they missed, but rather, whether through weapon design, magic or both, the glaives instead returned to their owners to strike once more.

As they battled this second wave of attackers, Torgall could hear Hellscream say in a respectful and almost awed voice, "These women fight with unmatched savagery! I've never seen their equal. They are... perfect warriors." The younger orc nearly stumbled at hearing these words, but as he looked at the chieftain, he saw Hellscream had no qualms about slaughtering any Kaldorei that happened to get to close to him. The orcs fought hard and with determination, and eventually managed to beat back the warrior women.

After recovering from these brief skirmishes, the orcs resumed their patrol, even more on the alert. Now that they knew these elf-women could attack from the air, they were far warier of attack. They were less concerned of an ambush, however; the trees appeared to be thinning out. As they rounded a final small cluster, they found themselves in a tranquil glade; strange stone wells were erected within, with archaic stone arches that bespoke ancient power. The wells were filled with ethereal water that glowed an almost unearthly blue, and like the arches that overlooked them, the waters gave off an aura of magic. In the middle of the glade stood a massive tree, unlike any Torgall, Torgus or Greshka had ever seen, and judging by the looks of the Warsong orcs, neither had they. This tree, however, also appeared very ancient, and wise... Torgall shook his head; he was being foolish. How in the ancestors could a tree be _wise_?

It was unsurprising that this supernatural display was guarded by yet more Kaldorei, several mounted on more of the huge, and savage, panthers. At the sight of the Warsong orcs, the Kaldorei gave a battle cry as one, but it was not them nor their mounted warriors that troubled Torgall, but the huge tree they appeared to be guarding.

"Chieftain, that great tree pulses with magic!" he said, readying himself for the incoming warrior women. "We should keep our distance!"

Hellscream favoured him with a derisive glare, eyes narrowed; evidently he just realized Torgall was not of his clan.

"Bah!" he snapped, Gorehowl held at the ready. "Am I surrounded only by cowards? It's a tree like any other! Cut it down!"

That, of course, was easier said than done, as the Kaldorei needed to be dealt with first. The orcs shirked slightly from the mounted attackers, allowing them to pass before engaging those on foot. As the panthers pelted past, the wolf riders wheeled their own mounts around and gave chase. Orc fought elf, panther fought wolf; it was madness. Torgall found himself on the offensive one moment, pursuing his opponent, when suddenly he was forced on the defensive, parrying and dodging as two more Kaldorei attacked from nowhere. Greshka gave them cover as best she could, firing arrow after arrow with her unerring aim; Torgus simply carved his way through the opposition.

Before long, the orcs, who had the superior numbers, had slain the Kaldorei and were felling the great tree at the centre of the glade. Torgall swung his axe repeatedly, and it bit deeply into the wood; it felt almost more like striking flesh than wood. As he cut through the base of the trunk he was focusing on, he glanced up - and for the second time in the same day, recoiled in surprise. Once more, he thought he saw a face, this time on the tree itself. It was looking at him almost mournfully, but when he shook his head and stared more intently, he merely saw ordinary wood. An ominous creaking brought him to his senses; he leapt to the side as the huge tree collapsed.

"You see?" Hellscream said triumphantly, "The great tree provided us with an abundance of lumber! If we find any more, then we'll hack them apart as well!"

The peons that had skulked behind the rest of the group now had their chance for work, and began pulling the tree apart with surprising efficiency. Torgall was still slightly uneasy about what he had seen; it was truly as though the tree was more like a creature rather than a plant. He shook his head - perhaps this strange forest was simply addling him slightly. Accepting a bundle of lumber one of the peons shoved into his arms, he sought out Torgus and Greshka, wondering if they had experienced a similar spectacle.

"When you were assisting in felling that large tree..." he started, unsure how to pose the question. He paused for a moment before continuing. "Did you find that your weapons cut into the wood like... it was more akin to flesh, rather than... than wood?"

He looked at them hopefully, knowing the question sounded odd, but hopefully not as odd as asking "Did you see a face on the tree". Torgus looked thoughtful, though Greshka shook her head.

"I _did_ find my axe bit quite deeply into the trunk, for a tree," said Torgus. "But I expect that's simply due to my awesome strength," he added with a guffaw. Torgall pretended to laugh appreciatively, slightly reassured but still not completely assuaged. The thought was driven completely from his mind, however, when, having taken a slightly wrong route back to the encampment, the patrol of orcs found themselves not with the other Warsongs, but instead in a small camp with huts, metal contraptions and, while his colour blended in with the vegetation, his mere demeanour made him stick out like a beacon: a goblin.

While it was not overly-surprising that there was a goblin in this strange land - the Horde had, after all, purchased zeppelins from goblins to secure passage further up the mountain - it was still a slight shock to find them here; they simply seemed out of place wherever they were encountered. The goblin, in turn, seemed equally as bemused to find orcs here, but, as businesslike as ever, he spoke first.

"Ah, greetings good orc," he said in an oily voice, "Strange to see one of you in these parts."

"We are here to cut lumber, little goblins," Hellscream said, not completely successful at keeping the contempt out of his voice; evidently, Thrall's order still stung his pride. He glanced at a nearby wooden sign; it read 'Neeloc Greedyfingers - Deforester Extraordinaire'. Torgall blinked at Hellscream's response; indeed, as the goblin spoke, he noticed others emerging from the nearby huts.

"Hmm," said Neeloc, scratching his pointed green chin, "Well, there's this tribe of bear men, called furbolgs-" Torgall, Torgus and Greshka glanced at one another, "-in this region that's been giving us trouble. If you kill the chieftain-" They glanced at each other again, looking quite alarmed, "-we'll sell our goods to you at cost. We might even let you borrow a few shredders!"

"Hm. I'll consider it," Hellscream replied simply, and led the orcs away from the diminutive creatures. Torgall, Torgus and Greshka looked at each other uneasily; the shredders looked as though they would make the deforestation efforts far easier. At the same time, however, the furbolgs Neeloc spoke of sounded worryingly like those the three had just befriended. Not at all enjoying the prospect of what he was about to do, Torgall approached the Warsong chieftain.

"Chieftain... Hellscream," he said uncertainly, and the Warsong leader regarded him with a slightly contemptuous sneer, "Perhaps we ought not to help the goblin? They can be untrustworthy, after all..."

"Pagh. The goblins proved resourceful enough for the Horde in the Second War," Hellscream replied dismissively. Torgall tried again.

"But... we can manage the task on our own. Surely your warriors can manage without... without the shredders?"

"My _warriors_ were bred for battle, worm," growled Hellscream. "I know not what clan you're from but like all others, I expect it does not match up to the Warsong clan."

Torgall took a deep breath before continuing. "But surely-"

"Enough!" the chieftain barked, eyes flashing. "I will hear no more from you! We will kill the furbolg chieftain if I so deign, and use the shredders whether you like it or not! Now be silent and carry out your tasks!"

Not willing to remain around an exceptionally angry Grom Hellscream, Torgall hurriedly retreated to the others. They did not need to enquire about what had transpired; Hellscream's final retort was loud enough for the entire patrol to hear. That, however, was not Torgall's concern.

"It looks like we're going to need to find Meilosh," he muttered to his friends.


	10. Survival

**Chapter 10: Survival**

"We can't let him go through with this."

It was evening - granted, that was hard to tell with what little light penetrated the forest canopy - and the three were discussing the matter of furbolgs inside the stronghold that the peons had constructed. They were sitting away from the Warsong orcs, who had now all realized they had three 'outsiders' in their midst, and while they granted them hospitality, the trio couldn't help but notice the occasional derisive glance thrown their way; Warsong orcs considered themselves the greatest of the Horde's warriors (and admittedly, this was mostly true), and so regarded their brethren with slightly discourteous attitudes. Part of this might have been because none of the three wanted to see Meilosh and his ilk slain. It was Greshka who had spoken - for all her suspicion of the bear-men, show now seemed the most eager to save them. Torgall looked at her, slightly pityingly.

"It's no use, Greshka," he said quietly, looking around at the Warsong orcs, who were eating, drinking, rolling the bones and, of course, discussing battle. Indeed, several of them were wondering out loud what battling the furbolgs would be like. "Hellscream will not be swayed. If the shredders mean that we'll achieve our quota of lumber, he's very likely to follow through. You know how much he despises the thought of being used simply for labour."

Greshka looked as though she wished to protest, but she, too, knew it was futile. Torgus interjected.

"Perhaps we can help them. The furbolgs," he said. "What if we were to help them prepare for the battle? Or to flee?"

"Surely you don't mean-" Torgall started.

"No, no, I don't mean to battle alongside them," Torgus continued, "that would be most foolish, Hellscream would likely attack us first instead of the furbolg chieftain Greedyfingers mentioned. No, I was considering a more... subtle approach."

Torgall looked at the Dragonmaw orc with respect - for the clan's brutal abuse of the Red Dragonflight during the Second War, he proved himself to be quite considerate at times. Unfortunately, consideration was not about to save the furbolgs.

"What sort of assistance can we provide?" he asked. "There's little more we can do than forewarn them, if that; we speak entirely different langauges."

The trio's musings was brought to an abrupt end when Hellscream stomped into the stronghold, glaring around at his warriors.

"We attack on the morrow!" he barked, raising Gorehowl menacingly. "Greedyfingers will provide us with the location of these furbolgs, and we will slay them in the name of the Horde!" His lips twisted into a smile. "With the shredders that the goblins will provide, we'll be able to cut this forest down to the last tree, and march up the peak to join our Warchief!"

He proclaimed the last respectfully, though Torgall noted a hint of disdain in the chieftain's voice. As he left, Hellscream glanced their way; his eyes rested upon Torgall for a moment and narrowed. Torgall met the gaze evenly and did not break eye contact until the chieftain had departed.

"You don't particularly like Hellsream, do you," Greshka asked in a low voice. Torgall shook his head.

"He was one of, if not _the _first, to do... whatever it was the Horde did when Ner'zhul and Gul'dan shamed our race," he replied darkly. "He was one of the most eager to partake in the slaughter..." Torgall shivered slightly. "When we were at Stonard, and the half-breed spoke down to us, it was Hellscream who had united us and wished to continue the war with the humans and their allies. The savage simply wishes for bloodshed; I've not seen anything that suggests he cares for anyone save himself, except perhaps his clan."

Torgall growled to himself and shook his head.

"What is life without battle?" Torgus proclaimed. Torgall fixed him with a stare.

"A peaceful life," he said simply. Torgus opened his mouth, but Torgall interjected, "With respect, my friend, I lived my life alone for over two decades. I know full well a life without battle, a life of peace."

Torgus fell silent but looked slightly put out. It was Greshka who returned to the matter at hand.

"It changes nothing, we _have _to find out a way to get Meilosh and his brethren out of the forest," she said briskly. The other two nodded, and Torgall procured the map that Fenris had annotated. Greshka raised an eyebrow before she realized that he was drawing routes of escape from the forest.

"We'll have to get the location from Greedyfingers," he explained. "With any luck, the map will be able to convey the threat to the furbolgs."

The three left the stronghold and stepped into the night. The darkness was cool, and a light wind ruffled their hair slightly. Torgall couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of the forest; it was both ethereal and haunting. The immediate area around them had been reduced to stumps for several hundred feet in all directions, but in the distance they could see all number of coloured glows winking at them from the darkness. Torgall felt somewhat at ease, but at the same time could not help feeling tense as well; the Kaldorei lurked out there somewhere, possibly watching them even now; Fenris had warned them that they were beings of the night.

Sighing and pulling themselves in slightly, the three departed the camp, the sounds of orcs laughing, shouting and making other brutish noises quickly becoming muffled in the night. The group shivered slightly as the darkness pressed in on them, feeling wary of attack. Even slight noises was enough to make them jump, and they cursed one another each time for being so on the edge. It took them some time to try and find Greedyfingers' camp, due to both the darkness and their less than optimal senses of direction. Greshka, fortunately, had keener senses and managed to, after several attempts, lead them to the goblins.

Torgall approached what appeared to be sleeping quarters and thudded on the door several times. He heard alarmed squeaks from inside, followed by shrill, slightly muffled grumbling and bickering as the goblins debated whether or not to open the door. The inside glowed slightly as lamps were lit, and after several moments, they heard Neeloc's oily voice above the others, and the door opened slightly, a dark black eye staring at them. The eye frowned slightly, then the door opened wider, the frame filled by Neeloc's diminutive green form.

"What what what?" he cried, eyes darting wildly from one orc to the next, "Why are you bothering us in the middle of the night? If you're going to take us up on that offer, we're not handing over the shredders until morning..."

"Easy, little goblin," Torgall rumbled in what he hoped was a calming voice, "we wish only to know the location of the furbolgs. Hellscream wishes for a... subtle attack by night."

The goblin eyed them suspiciously, then retreated inside. The three orcs glanced at each other, but before they had moved, Greedyfingers had returned with a slightly tattered map; he unfurled it, showing it to them.

"They have several camps and tribes scattered throughout the forest, but the biggest one, and unfortunately the one that's been hassling us, is this one," he said, pointing a short green finger at a large "X", next to which an angry face was drawn, "take out their chieftain and they'll be in disarray; then you can have the shredders, but not until the morning. We're not getting up any earlier than needed."

He stuffed the map into their hands, barking, "Now go, go! Leave us be, we were sleeping!"

The door slammed shut behind them and the lamps were extinguished, leaving them standing once more in the cool darkness. Torgall unrolled the map again and squinted at the markings, trying to distinguish what was where in the absence of light. The others observed over his shoulder, attempting to discern the squiggly markings.

"Well, we know the furbolgs are here," said Torgall, indicating the frowning face, "And it seems Greedyfingers' camp must be here..." he added, pointing to a few triangles conveniently marked 'Us', "...so it's just a matter of getting from point A to point B."

The others nodded as he rolled up the map and stuffed it into his belt, and he added, "And of course, with this, we might be able to further convey our point."

The three orcs stalked as quietly as they could through the forest, ever wary; everything was silent save slight rustling from the wind blowing the leaves. What struck him as strange was that Torgall realized they had not yet encountered any wildlife; perhaps they had fled before the orcish incursion. In the darkness, the strange lights Torgall saw earlier that day winked and twinkled serenely at them, though they did nothing to assuage the group's tension. The Kaldorei had proven themselves exceptional at stealthy attacks, and more than once had the orcish expedition into this strange forest seen them seemingly melt into shadows. And, as was to be expected, they had similarly seen the elf-women emerge from the shadows, shouting battlecries and bringing their tri-blades to bear.

Fortunately, the foray passed without incident and, with frequent checks of the map, they drew closer and closer to the furbolg camp. The orcs had not thought to bring a torch with them, and by the time the thought had occured they were long gone from the Warsong camp; however, in hindsight, a torch would have been a curse more than a blessing, and would likely have drawn every Kaldorei warrior within a mile radius to their location.

After a half hour of travel, the orcs stopped abruptly; a great rumbling, growl permeated their surroundings. They drew their weapons, listening closely - the growls were low, and seemed intermittent, and they only sounded every few seconds. Listening even more intently, Greshka mouthed, "It's snoring!"

Torgall frowned, wondering if even her ears had mis-heard - but no, it was definately snoring. Between each growl, there was a deep exhalation.

They were right outside the furbolg camp.

"We have to find Meilosh," Torgall whispered to the others, "try and look for his armband."

"In this?" snorted Torgus derisively, but made no protest. The trio pushed their way through some undergrowth, and were briefly stunned - before them, amidst primitive huts, were a whole _village_ worth of furbolgs. They were peacefully lying, whether underneath huts or simply lying on the forest floor, and were unsurprisingly the source of the loud, rumbling snores. Many of them were simply adorned, wearing loincloths or other simple pieces of clothing, while dotted here and there, usually in slightly more decorated huts, were the leaders, wearing the feathered armbands they had seen on Meilosh. The furbolgs looked deceptively docile in their slumber, but this was belied somewhat by the primitive but deadly looking weapons strewn amongst the village.

"Great," Greshka muttered, "how are we going to find him amongst all this?"

"And what if we wake up any others?" Torgus said quietly, "They'll probably think we're trying to ambush them in their sleep."

Torgall motioned them to be silent and, surprisingly quietly for one of his size and build, began creeping amongst the slumbering bear-men. With slightly apprehensive looks at one another, Torgus and Greshka followed.

The task seemed quite hopeless; there were simply too many furbolgs to discern one from another, let alone distinguish Meilosh. The three orcs quietly whispered his name into the rumbling darkness but to no avail - the furbolgs were either too deeply sleeping, or they simply overlooked him. Torgus and Greshka became increasingly frustrated, but Torgall continued to stoicly tread amongst the furbolgs, even going so far as to bend in nearer to observe them or, if he was feeling particularly daring, poke and prod. Luckily, they simply grumbled in their sleep and rolled over. Finally, Greshka approached him, looking harrassed.

"This is fruitless, Torgall!" she hissed into the darkness, "We're never going to succeed this way! We'll need to figure out another approach!"

"Like what?" he replied in a low voice as Torgus joined them, "Try and talk Hellscream into a peaceful resolution? That'll probably get us bound and gagged until the logging operation is over."

"We'll have to," she retorted, "or before we know it the sun will have risen and Hellscream will be attacking - how suspicious do you think it'll look if he sees us here amongst the furbolgs with attack plans? It's either being bound and gagged, or executed, Torgall."

"We just have to keep looking!" he said. "We can't just kill our way through life! Where is the honour in that? We agreed that we would try to help Meilosh-"

He stopped talking abruptly and froze; they realized a moment too late that their voices had been rising without their noticing. The result was that the regular growling snores and breathing of the furbolgs had now simply become growling snores - except they were no longer snoring. The furbolgs were glaring at them, readying their weapons, and Torgall thought for a moment that they were as good as dead - however, he then realized that at the mention of 'Meilosh', one furbolg was waving the others down and approaching them.

"Meilosh!" he cried, "Orcs attack! Orcs threaten!" He waved the map around, keeping his speech simple, hoping that the furbolg would understand. To his surprise, Meilosh nodded and replied in coherent, if slightly akward, orcish.

"What this? Talk slower, Meilosh try understand," the furbolg replied in a guttural voice. The orcs glanced at each other in surprise.

"You... speak orcish now?" Greshka said, slightly incredulously. Meilosh looked at them proudly.

"Furbolgs smart. Furbolgs watch orcs, listen. Furbolgs quick learners, learn orc speak, yes," he said. Torgall felt a rush of relief - this would simplify matters considerably.

"Meilosh," he began again, slightly slower but still retaining the urgency in his tone, "orcs want to attack, and kill chieftain." Meilosh's eyes widened, but Torgall continued, "We've come to warn you. Look."

He thrust the maps, their own and Greedyfingers', to the furbolg, who unfurled them clumsily, accidentally tearing them a few times. Meilosh stared at the maps, frowning slightly.

"You show. You show us. Why?" he demanded, still frowning and looking at them not without a little suspicion.

"We made deal. No attack. Other orcs break deal. Should warn," Torgall said hurriedly but concisely. Meilosh still continued to eye him carefully, and the other furbolgs growled softly to one another. Greshka glanced uneasily at Torgall.

"I don't think we're getting through to them," she muttered. Torgall tried a different tack.

"Orcs strong, will bring big attack," he said, keeping things simple. "Grom Hellscream bring many orcs, furbolgs must flee."

At this, several furbolgs bristled or growled angrily, and Meilosh stepped forward and thrust the maps back at Torgall.

"Timbermaw no run, Timbermaw strong!" he growled. "Timbermaw fight!"

The other furbolgs growled and nodded in approval, and Torgall tried again.

"Grom Hellscream try to kill furbolg chieftain. Make deal with goblins. Hellscream stop at nothing," he said, trying to put as much emphasis onto the scope of the situation. Meilosh, however, remained sceptical.

It was going to be a long negotiation session.

* * *

Hellscream marched purposefully up to Greedyfingers' shack, his may warriors proudly awaiting his command behind him. They were armed and ready for battle, and had tempoarily shifted the logging operations aside so that they may deal with the furbolgs and acquire the shredders. The orcs had not yet encountered the Kaldorei, who had proved a thorn in their side thus far but had conveniently stayed out of the way; as such, they were more than willing to clear out a few bear-men to speed up the operation, with Hellscream himself leading the battle into the furbolgs' territory.

The chieftain slammed on the door several times, and the goblins within could be heard grumbling. He smirked disdainfully at the thought of the small, weak creatures but had to acknowledge their technical genious - the goblins had served the Horde faithfully during the Second War, after all. He wondered briefly what happened to the younger orc and his two companions, and where they had disappeared to, but was not at all sorry they had gone; he had quickly grown tired of their attempts at peace. Pagh! What was life without battle?

His musings were interrupted as the doors opened and Greedyfingers stared at him with an annoyed look on his features, evidently displeased at being bothered so early, but he immediately brightened when he saw it was Hellscream.

"Ah, chieftain!" he said in his oily voice, "I take it the furbolg problem has been taken care of?"

Hellscream frowned. "Not yet, little goblin," he replied in his gravelly voice, "I am here to ask of the location of these furbolgs... we intend to attack now, while they do not suspect it."

Greedyfingers looked at him, surprised. "But... I already gave you the location to your warriors during the night? Surely you still have the map? If not, I have another here..." he added, rummaging about his belongings. Hellscream, however, was no longer listening. His eyes flashed and he bared his teeth angrily, and the goblin stepped back hastily, his companions doing likewise. Location given to his warriors already? For all his love of battle, Hellscream was no fool and could easily put two and two together. Not even responding to the goblin, he snatched the second map away and slammed the door shut, waving Gorehowl to his warriors who bellowed and yelled, ready for battle.

And woe betide those orcs when he found them...

* * *

Torgall, Torgus and Greshka started as they heard sounds of battle. The 'negotiations' had been futile and lasted through the night, though with what little light had penetrated through this denser part of the forest, they had not yet realized that it was morning.

"Meilosh!" Torgall barked, all patience lost, "This is madness! The Warsong clan will completely wipe out your tribe! You _have_ to flee with us!"

As the furbolg turned, only to see Warsong orcs streaming in shouting battlecries, Greshka pulled him aside.

"Flee with _us_?" she hissed, "Flee with us _where_, exactly? These furbolgs know the lay of the land better than we do!"

In response, Torgall took out the map they had taken from the abandoned Horde base before it was overrun by centaur.

"Look," he said quietly, pointing to the map, "Fenris mentioned a river called the Southfury River, next to what he described as a 'land of eternal autumn'... I say we lead the furbolgs there, and hope for the best."

Greshka bit her lip, looking concerned, but Torgall turned back to Meilosh, grabbing his thick furry arm and pulling him to face him. It was now or never.

"Meilosh," he said clearly, "this is likely your - _our_ only chance of surviving this battle. Gather what friends, family, weak, young, old, whatever others you can, and follow us. _Now_."

The furbolg swallowed, looking fearful. Behind the group, the sounds of battle clashed with the roars of the furbolgs as the Warsong clan swept over them, cutting them down and pushing deeper and deeper. Over the din, Hellscream's famous shriek carried over the clash of metal and the cries and roars of orc and furbolg alike. Torgall knew it would only be a short time before he would spot them, and then they would be finished - their only choice would be to flee the battle, and if Meilosh chose to stay behind... it was his own death warrant.

Nodding to his companions, Torgall strode from the chaos of the battle behind them. The Warsong orcs had not yet reached them, and while they were jostled by more furbolgs rushing to join their brethren in battle, they managed to reach the forest edge quite easily. Before slipping away unnoticed into the trees, Torgall turned - and smiled.

Meilosh, along with several other furbolgs, had chosen to join them after all. From the edge of the village, Torgall could see the savagery of the Warsong clan unleashed once more - and it brought back dark memories. As he watched the orcs cutting a swathe through the bear-men, he was forcibly reminded of the old Horde, when Gul'dan and Ner'zhul had corrupted their people so deeply. Visions of the Horde sweeping across Draenor, destroying all that they touched, briefly engulfed him, and he was only dimly aware of Greshka calling his name. It was not until she struck him hard across the face that he came to.

Shaking his head, he turned and departed, leading away what few Timbermaw furbolgs of Ashenvale chose survival.


	11. Shadows of the Past

**Chapter 11: Shadows of the Past**

"We've been walking for over a day. Are you _sure_ you know where you're going?"

"As a matter of fact, I don't. Meilosh has been leading us since the last moonrise."

The bickering had been near incessant for the past several hours. They had liberated Meilosh and several of his brethren from the Timbermaw village in Ashenvale - the furbolg informed them that the Timbermaw had numerous villages amongst Ashenvale and the surrounding forests - abandoning the others who were stubborn enough to fight to their fate. Along the way to the Southfury River, some others, battered, fearful or both, had joined up with them, but Torgall knew, grimly, that Hellscream and his clan had carried out their task with grisly gusto.

Throughout the trip as they traveresed Ashenvale, they feared attacks from the Kaldorei. Meilosh, at one point, caught snippets of their conversation and, realizing who they were speaking of, reassured the trio that the furbolgs were close allies of the Kaldorei, whom they referred to as 'moon children'. While Torgus had found this name amusing, Torgall and Greshka reasoned that for a race seemingly as primitive as the furbolgs, a race of elf-women who lived by night would be quite suitable by the name moon children.

Torgall had not disclosed to his companions until this point that Meilosh had, at one point, surreptitiously led him aside from the rest of the group and confided in him, confidently, that the Timbermaw had a very large community living in the mountains of the land adjacent to Ashenvale, known as the Timbermaw Hold, and that it was where the Timbermaw retreated whenever under threat - it was there that Meilosh was now leading his brethren.

"What is this land called?" Torgall had asked the furbolg, staring with both awe and trepidation at how accurate Fenris' words had been - the land truly _was_ bathed in eternal autumn. The foliage was all manner of brilliant shades of red, brown, orange, bronze and gold. Leaves seemed to flutter down perpetually from the branches, lightly touching the floor. The trees were far less dense, and smaller, than their counterparts in Ashenvale, but despite that leaves seemed to be constantly falling from them, their canopies never appeared to thin, nor did the earth from which they protruded gather in density as the leaves gently touched the ground. Torgall could not help but shake his head in disbelief at the sight - this land was truly nothing they had ever seen.

"Az... azza... azzash..." Meilosh had spluttered in response, and for a moment Torgall thought wildly that the furbolg was having a seizure. However, he quickly realized that Meilosh was simply trying to pronounce the name of the land the way the Kaldorei did, as the furbolg explained thereafter.

"Azshara!" Meilosh had cried happily after several attempts, then continued, "This land Azshara. Moon children call brown land Azshara. Or maybe it orange. Sometimes gold. No matter to Timbermaw, colours not affect us."

"Azshara..." Torgall had breathed to himself. The name seemed to capture the beauty of the land, yet at the same time it also felt like it carried a more dire meaning, as though he had uttered a curse to himself. Torgall merely shook his head and allowed Meilosh to resume leading the group.

Now, Greshka was looking furious at him, and Torgus, too, looked quite annoyed, even disappointed, that Torgall had not seen fit to mention to them that he no longer led the group. Torgall, in turn, had felt that he should not be expected to lead them wherever they went, and had therefore had no qualms about letting Meilosh take the lead. However, with tensions threating to boil over, he decided that he should tempoarily shelve his pride and head off any potential arguments, or worse.

"Look," he said quietly to them both, "I didn't realize it would bother you. I simply wished to let someone else take the lead, so I let Meilosh do so when he offered. We'll let them take us to Timbermaw Hold and then... we'll figure something out."

"Timbermaw Hold?" Torgus repeated blankly. Torgall nodded.

"He says it's the largest population of Timbermaw furbolgs, bigger even than that village the Warsong clan overran," he explained. "He says Timbermaw seeking safety, or who are threatened, make their way there to recover, or whatever else the need to do."

"Smart," said Greshka, "it sounds like a capital city, almost."

"A refuge," agreed Torgall.

"Where is this 'Hold', anyway?" Torgus asked. Torgall opened his mouth to reply, then realized he had no idea.

"Meilosh," he said, and the furbolg looked at him, "where is the Timbermaw Hold?"

The furbolg, in response, raised a thick arm and waved it roughly northward, in the direction of the moutains. Torgall also noticed that eastward led to a huge peninsula-like cliff jutting out to sea, with treacherous, jagged rocks jutting up from the sides; he shuddered at the thought of falling down the cliff face. Further to the south, a similar cliff reached out to the see, forming two grasping arm-like rock formations. They almost formed a crescent shape, in which there was a bay where the sea reached, and Torgall could see even more rocks dotted amongst the coast. Judging by the rough, haphazard formation of the rocks, it looked almost as though it had once been one huge landmass, but one that had had its centre ripped away by a monumental force.

However, he could not see any distinctive structures northward that Meilosh may be signifying. He opened his mouth to question the furbolg further, but found he was no longer listening.

Meilosh was growling quietly to himself, holding his stone spear at the ready. The sound of his growling alerted his brethren, and they drew weapons of their own; daggers, axes, swords, hammers. Taking the hint, Torgall, Torgus and Greshka all drew their weapons, though Greshka chose her swords in favour of her bow - the large number of furbolgs simply made quarters too close to fire her bow accurately.

"What is it?" Torgall murmured to her. She shook her head, turning carefully on the spot. It was Meilosh who answered, however.

"Elf-demons!" he hissed, "Elf-demons!"

Torgall couldn't see anything that resembled an elf, much less a demon, but at the mention of the latter, Greshka and Torgus both snarled to themselves. Minutes passed in silence, yet still nothing revealed itself. Until...

They heard them before they saw them. And they _smelt _them before the heard them. It was foul, pungent and thick - Torgall felt he could cut it if he really tried. It smelt particularly of sulfur and... as strange as it sounded, evil. He glanced at Greshka and Torgus, and judging by the looks on their faces, his suspicions were confirmed: there was demonic magic nearby. Sure enough, a dark, cackling laughter sounded from the trees around them, laughter that sounded oddly like... bleating?

Abruptly, a bolt of pure darkness shot out of the trees, catching an unwary furbolg straight in the chest. The bear-man gave an agonized roar before collapsing to the ground heavily. His brethren bellowed in fury, scattering, and more shadowbolts were blasted at the adventurers, but most missed or merely glanced the targets. Torgall spared a glance upwards as he rolled to the side and saw tall, muscular figures emerge from the trees, with cloven hooves, fur covering their bodies, but most prominently on their thighs and forearms, and goat-like horns protruding from the crests of their heads. They were clearly demons, but Torgall could hardly see what similarity to elves they bore - certainly, they had angular features that barely bore resemblance to high elves, and pointed ears as well, but the likeness ended there. Their hulking forms and savage appearance that belied a hidden cunning simply prevented Torgall from making any connection.

These goat-men - or elf-demons, as Meilosh had called them - clearly had a malevolent intent toward the group. Already they were casting further bolts of darkness, but now that they were visible, and the furbolgs having spread out, the magical attacks were easily avoided. Torgall wasted no breath attempting to reason with these demons; it was clear that diplomacy would have no effect on them. Axe held high, he charged the nearest one. The demon's face split into a grin, and it suddenly conjured a blade of black smoke from thin air. Despite its apparent lack of substance, the blade held fast as the demon used it to block Torgall's strike. As he parried the axe to the side with surprising strength, the demon reached out a hand - with wickedly sharp nails, no less - and brushed it against Torgall's leather harness. Immediately, he felt a constricting pain blossom in his chest, and he doubled over, gasping in agony.

The demon approached him, the grin going from malevolent to sadistic, shadow blade raised high. Torgall could barely raise his head to look his slayer in the eyes, let alone see at all. He began an ancestral chant-

Abruptly, the pain ceased as a furious roar sounded from somewhere above. Torgall glanced up to see a furbolg having taken advantage of the demon's tormenting to bury its axe deep in the left shoulder. The goat-man turned, snarling in pain and fury to attack the furbolg, but Torgall rose and, with a swift strike, severed the head from the shoulders. The head hit the ground and rolled away, mouth still open in a furious snarl. Grasping the stone axe handle, Torgall kicked the still-standing body forward so that it collapsed, wrenching the furbolg's weapon from the furry back, which he then tossed to its owner with a grateful nod.

Turning to survey the battle, Torgall saw that, even with the demons' wicked magics, the furbolgs were putting up a tremendous fight. Despite being primitive, they fought with a feral fury to the point that they simply ignored their wounds and kept fighting. Torgus, he saw, was employing similar tactics - at one point, he took a shadowbolt straight to the chest and had doubled over wheezing, but as his assailant had approached, he abruptly leapt upward with a savage roar, swinging his axe so forcefully that it cleaved from the waist to the neck, spraying blood everywhere; the demon collapsed in a bloody heap.

Greshka, meanwhile, was still unable to use her bow, due to the hectic nature of the battle, but she was nonetheless dangerous. She whirled about, slicing and parrying swiftly until she was almost a blur; Torgall now knew where she got both her blades and her abilities. The high elf fighting style appeared completely foreign to these demons, who seemed unsure how to approach her. One of the demons moved forward, a shadowy claymore raised, seeking to strike her from the side. Abruptly, however, she dodged backwards, and the demon stumbled awkwardly. She used this advantage and plunged both her blades into his neck with such force that one pierced the side of his head, the other erupting from his opposite shoulder - as she wrenched them out, he gave over to death throes, twitching on the floor. As she looked up, Torgall saw her face had been splattered with blood, but she had a gleeful grin on her features, revelling in the slaughter of demons.

Meilosh, too, was fighting with almost alarming savagery. Giving a bellowing roar, he charged one of the demons, barreling into it and knocking it off balance - he whirled about and thrust the spear so deeply that it pierced out the other side. Meilosh was not done, however. He and another furbolg both ran at a demon who remained further back from the battle, and was responsible for most of the shadowbolts and curses afflicting the furbolgs and their orcish allies. As they neared the warlock, his eyes narrowed and he muttered an incantation, gesturing at the second furbolg - whom was, Torgall realized belatedly, the one who had saved him just moments ago. The furbolg gave a shriek, a chilling sound from such a creature, and blood spewed from his mouth, eyes, ears, nose - within moments, blood was covering his furred body, and he collapsed, giving a gurgling growl before falling still; whatever spell the warlock had cast had clearly caused the creature unendurable agony, even in the short time it had lasted.

Torgall was briefly repulsed by this sight, but Meilosh, on the contrary, was enraged by it. Giving a furious roar of both hate and pain at the loss of seeing a comrade perish so horrificly, he thrust the spear into the warlock's chest, but not enough to kill him; the warlock staggered back, clutching the wound with a clawed hand, but Meilosh was not finished; he thrust again, and again, and again, until the warlock, who had long since died, was covered in just as much blood as Meilosh's deceased companion. Panting, the furbolg straightened up, observing the battle; the furbolgs had all but won, if only through superior numbers and sheer determination. The remaining elf-demons, eyes blazing with hatred, swiftly retreated into the shadows of the nearby trees, vanishing in ways akin to the Kaldorei. Some furbolgs gave chase but found nothing, and returned to the group looking furious.

The battle over, the group began assessing their losses. Several furbolgs had died from wounds inflicted by the shadowy weapons the demons had wielded, blood matting their fur and seeping into the ground beneath them. Others had perished from the wicked spells that the warlocks had cast; some had snarls of pain locked on their features, while others bore looks of terror. Torgall was relieved the demons were so few - only a handful more and they would not have stood a chance.

He strode up to Meilosh, who was still staring despondently at his bloodied slain friend, and shook the furbolg's shoulder roughly.

"We must move," he said in a gruff voice, "more will come, and we will not survive a second battle."

He did not bother to simplify his speech; he knew the furbolg would understand well enough. Nodding, the furbolg finally tore his eyes away and signalled to the others, motioning for them to move on. At the same time, Torgall approached his own companions, surveying them; Torgus was virtually covered in blood, courtesy of his brutal attacks, while Greshka, who had kept her attacks slightly more controlled, only had it mostly on her face. Torgall knew that he must have looked little better.

"What _were_ those things?" she asked, half-awed and half-disgusted, as Torgus grimaced. Torgall shrugged.

"Meilosh called them 'elf-demons'," he replied. Greshka's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Yes, I heard that," she said in a low voice, "though I've not seen anything that looks less than an elf... demons, on the other hand..." She glanced at Torgall. "You never saw demons and what they did to our people, did you?" she asked, and he shook his head, so she elaborated. "On the eve when we were to attack the human capital city, the traitor Gul'dan took many of our forces and sailed out to sea to fulfill own ends. Doomhammer, furious at this betrayal, was forced to call off the attack and sailed after him in vengeance. When we arrived, we found Gul'dan and his warlocks had released demons upon the world - upon _us_ - and we were forced to fight them. They did... terrible things to us, Torgall," she said quetly, and for a moment, a closed look descended upon her features, depriving them of any emotion. She remained silent for several moments before continuing.

"It was then that we realized Gul'dan and his Shadow Council had long been communing with demons, bargaining for power. And their bargaining chip was _us_ - our very people. Gul'dan and his cronies only cared for power, and they sold off their entire race to demons in exchange for it. What he and Ner'zhul did," she said clearly, looking at him straight in the eye, "you never found out what it was, did you?" He gave her a blank look. "You said to me when we met that you were clanless... but you must have belonged to a clan once, and I've never seen you overcome by it, so surely you musn't have drunk it..."

"Seen me overcome by what? What haven't I drunk?" Torgall pressed urgently. She did not respond, instead posing him a question he had not been asked in many years.

"What clan are you from, Torgall?"

He stiffened, not wishing to discuss it, but then, this might be his only chance to discover what had corrupted his people. "Whiteclaw clan."

"Of course," she breathed. "Your clan," she continued, "along with the Frostwolves, never drank the Blood; you never came under the influence of the Blood Curse. I see it, now... the Whiteclaws were almost entirely annhiliated by the Old Horde. The Blood Curse, you see, transformed us, Torgall. Corrupted us. It twisted our souls so darkly that we even transformed physically." She indicated their skin colour. "Did you ever not wonder why we changed colour? It was due to exposure to demon magic."

"But the Whiteclaw clan never took part in the Horde's dealings!" Torgall burst out, "How could we-?"

But he stopped, remembering. Visions swam before him... he saw his father being hacked apart... his brother being dragged away, body mangled by numerous cuts and gashes... wizened old orcs, former shamans, wearing shadowy robes, chanting rhythmically together, shadows descending over the battling clan...

Torgall shook his head. They themselves were not corrupted - they had corruption forced _upon_ them.

"What is this Blood Curse?" he asked quietly. Greshka shivered slightly, but Torgus replied instead.

"It is a terrible thing to bear... you are fortunate not to have suffered it, my friend," he said in a low voice. "It beats in you as you fight, threatening to consume you... with each swing, you revel in the spray of blood, the crack of bone... You want more, you lust for battle, but even when you are not fighting, it pounds in your ears, urging to to fight, to attack, to kill..." He shuddered slightly. "We orcs have always been a warlike race, but the Blood Curse made it almost... overwhelming."

He and Greshka fell silent, no doubt reliving shadows of the past. Torgall, however, was digesting this new information.

So that was what had happened. Ner'zhul and his apprentice Gul'dan had united the Horde, and wished them to drink this 'Blood'... The Whiteclaws and Frostwolves protested the change, with the former being destroyed for it, the latter being exiled... With the orcs consumed by bloodlust, they would have been easy to send to war against other beings - the draenei, the humans...

He felt unclean, dirty. His people were worse than he had once imagined. It was one thing to wage war on others unnecsesarily, but to be twisted at the same time... It was not their fault however, he realized. Gul'dan, Ner'zhul, the demons - he knew the true enemy now. He knew why Greshka and Torgus despised them so: his people had been used and discarded as little more than toys. They had been used to incite hatreds and even virtually wipe out an entire civilization. It was because of those three and their compatriots, like Gul'dan's Shadow Council, that the orcs were viewed with such revulsion by so many races. At the very least, two of the three had already paid the price for their shameful acts.

And Torgall vowed that he would take grim pleasure in meting out punishment on the third.


	12. Timbermaw Hold

**Chapter 12: Timbermaw Hold**

"Wow."

That was approximately enough to describe the awe that struck the three orcs as they gazed upon Timbermaw Hold. The structure was enourmous, built into the very side of the mountain range which stretched unfalteringly skyward, seemingly grasping at the sky. Curiously, the architecture was very advanced and bore more semblance to human or dwarf construction, far beyond the capabilities of what the furbolgs had displayed thus far.

Erected at the forefront of the structure was a ginormous gate, which loomed ominously before them, intimidatingly daring them to breach it. Behind the gate, the group of orcs and furbolgs could gaze into a yawning tunnel that clearly went deep, very deep, into the mountains. Given the width of the tunnel, Torgall was willing to assume there was a winding, mazelike complex that stretched for miles buried deep under the earth. It was little wonder that the Timbermaw furbolgs retreated here when under threat - the place was as impregnable a fortress as any.

Standing vigil at the front of the gate were a cluster of other furbolgs, though Torgall mused there were likely plenty others just beyond should an attack commence. The leader was armed with a stone scythe-like blade, and along with a feathered armband akin to that which Meilosh wore, his loincloth was also dyed and he adorned himself with a string necklace of both beads and sharp bones. Given his attire, there was no doubt this particular furbolg held a strong position of power.

"This Gatekeeper Rageroar," Meilosh muttered in a low voice - his time travelling with the orcs had improved his communication skills exponentially, "he strong warrior and powerful shaman, kill many enemies of Timbermaw. He hold great respect."

Rageroar approached them, eyeing the orcs with obvious suspicion, his grip tight on his weapon. It was clear he would attack given any reason, and evidently the foreign newcomers did not endear themselves in his eyes - Torgall was grateful they had found a trickling creek where they could effectively wash off the blood from the earlier battle with the demons. As it was, Rageroar was already glowering at them; the Gatekeeper was making no effort to cover his disdain. However, at the sight of Meilosh, he gave a respectful nod and they two immediately started conversing in low growls. Torgall, Torgus and Greshka looked on with some apprehension - Rageroar looked as though he'd run them through at a moment's notice - but after a few minutes Meilosh returned, waving his brethren toward the gate, before addressing the trio.

"Rageroar thanks you for helping Timbermaw," he said as the gate creaked loudly, allowing the furbolgs passage, "but he very suspicious of orcs now because of attack. Rageroar quick-acting warrior, attack first, ask questions later. Orcs should be careful."

"Perhaps we can convince him otherwise," murmured Torgall, "it's not the first time Hellscream or the Warsong orcs have given the Horde a bad name."

"You can try," Meilosh said, shrugging, "but furbolgs can be very stubborn."

"So we've noticed," Greshka muttered, thinking of the Warsong attack.

"Come," Meilosh said abruptly. The trio glanced at one another.

"Er... come where?" asked Torgus.

"Inside Timbermaw Hold," replied Meilosh as though this were obvious. Again, they looked at each other.

"Are we... allowed?" Torgall enquired, not at all sure, given Rageroar's reception, how they'd be tolerated, let alone permitted to enter the Hold. Undeterred, Meilosh waved the question aside and beckoned them towards the foreboding gates. With a sigh and total lack of enthusiasm, the orcs followed him.

Their first impression was that they had entered a giant rabbit burrow. The huge tunnel stretched downward into the mountains and curved out of sight. It was lined with simple torches every few feet; Torgall shuddered at the thought of having to replace them all on a regular basis, but closer inspection revealed an element of magic onvolved; no doubt the shamans communed with the Spirits of Fire to provide illumination to their refuge. The tunnel felt slightly damp, but coupled with the minimal but cumulative warmth the torches provided, it made for a rather humid environment. On their immediate left and right upon entry were more furbolgs, these ones particularly heavily armed; they wore reinforced, multi-plated wooden armour padded with thick leather underneath, and their huge arms, easily as large as an orc's, carried enourmous stone hammers that could crush a skull with little effort. The heavy guards glowered at them as they passed but made no comment, thanks in part to Meilosh's intervention; they were particularly grateful for the last.

Meilosh led them down the damp tunnel, which was floored with roughly hewn planks of wood. The first few hundred metres were fairly uneventful, but after that, other tunnels started branching off to the sides. A few simply led to dead ends, while others led to small hollows which were primitively furnished, with furbolgs inhabiting them. Some were growling with one another, evidently conversing, while others were slumbering, their rumbling snores magnified tenfold by the winding tunnels. Occasionally they would pass hollows with shelves of very basic design upon which weaponry rested; the Hold clearly had no shortage of defenders.

After a significant period of trekking, during which the three orcs glimpsed several huge dens with large numbers of furbolgs gathered inside - some were feeding halls, others were sparring rooms one and in one they were simply all sleeping together - the orcs felt a change in the path. It was no longer sloping down; rather, it was inclining upwards. Torgall wondered if Meilosh had taken them for an overlong tour of the Hold, and had in fact led them back to the tunnel they had come down from - it was all so complex, he would not have been surprised, as his sense of direction was nonexistant this deep underground - but he could not recognize any of the hollows they had passed before. Again, he would not have been surprised if that was merely because his sense of direction had failed him.

"Meilosh," Torgus abruptly said, and the furbolg looked behind him, "where exactly are you taking us?"

"Up," their guide simply replied, continuing to lead them down tunnel after tunnel. They soon realized that they certainly were not exiting the way they came - the tunnels were now sloping significantly upwards. The group marched on resolutely, Meilosh seemingly unphased by the climb, but the orcs soon felt their legs seizing up.

"Is it... much... further?" panted Greshka, sweat beading on her forehead; the climb was quite a test of endurance.

"Soon," was the only reply. The orcs looked at each other, wondering why he had suddenly become so secretive, but knew that they were unlikely to get an elaborative response - as Meilosh himself had said before, furbolgs were very stubborn. They had only to remember the Warsong incident for proof of that.

As they continued to rise, the humidity of the tunnels began to taper off, to be replaced by a cool breeze, which in turn gave way to a chill draught. It only then occured to the three that Meilosh had led them far higher than where they had entered - likely up into the moutains. Sure enough, as they rounded a final bend in the tunnel, where the torches were now flickering due to the cold winds blowing in, they saw ahead of them that the cave mouth was layered with snow, and out beyond the lands were blanketed in a thick sheet of white. Torgall heard Greshka gasp slightly and Torgus utter an awed oath.

They stepped out into the chill expanse, the snow reaching out in every direction while Meilosh stood behind them, a smile, almost a smirk, playing on his muzzel. The sight was hauntingly beautiful - the trees twinkled and glistened with crystallized water hanging off their branches, and just in the distance was a frozen lake, glittering as it reflected the sunlight. The snow itself was very bright, as was the rest of the environment - unlike Ashenvale, where the forest canopy was so dense that very little light managed to penetrate, this frozen peak was so close to the sky that everything seemed far brigther than it was even when they were in Azshara, or the barren coastline upon which the Horde had initially landed. Torgall, Greshka and Torgus shivered slightly - their leather armour wasn't overly thick, and unlike Meilosh, they did not have fur to keep them warm.

"What you think?" Meilosh asked, surveying their reactions closely.

"It's... beautiful," Greshka said breathlessly.

"I've never seen anything like it," rumbled Torgus, "even the lands of the dwarves didn't look like this..."

"Nor Alterac," agreed Greshka fervently.

Torgall nodded with the others but did not speak - instead he approached a nearby boulder, sensing something underneath the snow. Carefully, he touched the surface - it was soft, impossibly soft - before brushing it aside. Beneath the snow was a thin layer of ice that had solidified over the rock, but it was completely clear; indeed, the only way he could tell that there was ice there was by touching it, and feeling the cool, smooth surface instead of the rough exterior one would have expected. Staring carefully through the ice, he saw that, upon the surface of the rock itself, strange runes had been carved: it was these that were emanating the power he sensed.

"These runes hold great power..." he muttered to himself, before glancing at Meilosh. He straightened up. "Is this what you brought us here for? To show us these?" He gestured at the rock, along with several others. Meilosh gave a half-shrug as Greshka and Torgus joined Torgall to investigate the runes.

"Yes," he replied, "and no. Come, have other thing to show."

He motioned for them to follow, and led them into the snowy wilderness. Now, the orcs got a true view of the wildlife in this strange land. Snow-white bears roamed the plains, hunting smaller game such as rabbits and squirrels, while snow leopards stalked the bushes and undergrowth, hoping to find nesting birds or rodents. At one point, Torgall thought he saw a great winged dragon-like creature soar overhead - which would not have been overly surprising, as dragons were still known to roam the skies, but what made him perform a double take was that this particular beast seemed to have _two_ heads. When he glanced up again, however, the creature had already flown out of sight. He shook his head - this land had not yet ceased to surprise him.

During the trek, the group happened across more of the strange rune-inscribed stones. Like the first they had passed, they pulsed with hidden power, some of which was barely contained; Torgall would not have been surprised if merely fracturing the ice coating would release a torrent of energy. He had heard shamans discussing arcane magics on the boats, how it became volatile and unstable over the years if left unused, not unlike alcohol fermenting. These artifacts of power were clearly ancient, and Torgall made a mental note not to so much as pick one up unless absolutely necessary.

Indeed, he very much hoped that such a feat would _not _prove absolutely necessary.

At one point they had passed a frozen lake, where upon the banks rested a crumbling and clearly ancient ruin. Over the surface of the ice, Torgall thought he saw a faint glimmering, which he attributed to the reflected sunlight. A second glance, however, revealed the glimmers to have transperant forms: transluscent and phantasmal spirits.

"Ghosts of moon children," whispered Meilosh, when he saw the orc staring, "they have haunted this place for long, long time... they weep for release, but when we try to help them, they attack us. We just leave them now."

As if to accentuate that point, one of the spirits gave a ghostly wail of misery and soared through the air towards them. The three orcs were briefly startled into inaction, but this was apparently not unfamiliar to Meilosh; as if instinctively, his paw flew straight to his belt, where he detached a few pebbles. Torgall at first thought the furbolg had lost all sense - throwing pebbles at a ghost? - but as they made contact with the spirit, there was a bright flash; it gave a shriek of pain and fury before dissipating into nothingness, and the pebbles crumbled to dust.

"What were those?" Greshka asked, frowning at the dust of the pebbles on the snow, but Torgall answered.

"The runestones," he said, looking at Meilosh, who nodded.

"Many of those stones used to be here," he explained, "and we Timbermaw have taken them now and then; they help us deal with the dangers in the land. But we don't always use them, because they sometimes very dangerous."

So it was arcane magic indeed. Torgall wondered if the reckless use of magic by the Kaldorei was what had caused these ruins, and if they had perhaps even altered the climate of these peaks; of course, so high up, the snowy environment was unsurprising, but there was most definately a hint of magic in the air. Torgall watched the forlorn spirits carefully as they resumed their hike.

Eventually, Meilosh led them to the edge of the moutains. At first, all three orcs were struck by a brief bout of vertigo, but after recovering, the view was breathtaking. Directly below them was Azshara, in all its magnificent glory. They could see its crescent shape clearly now, and dotted here and there across the landscape were ruins of what must have been mighty cities and temples; Torgall wondered how they hadn't seen them before. Further along they could see the Southfury River, before giving way to Ashenvale. The forest canopy was completely visible, a multitude of shades of purple, green and blue, and even in daylight the trees seemed to glitter and glow enticingly. In the midst of the forest, like a great blemish upon the landscape, was the area of forest that the Warsong orcs had cleared. It was there that the forest turned brown and grey, with the familiar spiky orcish architecture of buildings strewn amongst the clearing. Here and there were also fires, used for clearing the trees. Several of the surrounding areas also had been cleared, so the overall affect was one large open logging site with smaller operations spread around it nearby. Torgall could almost see why the Kaldorei were so affronted by their actions.

Beyond Ashenvale, further along the coast where Southfury met the sea, they could see the barren plains where the Horde had first landed, and even the valleys where Hellscream had attacked the Alliance. Behind those valleys, they could see the forboding moutain to which Thrall and the rest of the Horde had travelled, to find this mysterious Oracle; Torgall hoped they would complete their mission soon, so they could make their way in this foreign land. After all, the Warsong clan wasn't clearing the forest merely to provoke the natives - although in hindsight, Torgall mused that Hellscream might very well be doing that.

"Beautiful, yes?" Meilosh said, gazing over the land with slightly glazed eyes. A moment later he shook his head and added, "Thought you might want to watch others orcs from here, get good view."

Indeed, while they couldn't make out the orcs themselves from this height and distance, they could easily tell if an attack was imminent. However, it had taken them over a day to get here, so warning ahead of time would be very difficult...

"Perhaps we ought to be getting back," Torgall said to the others, "Hellscream will likely have finished the operation soon with those shredders, and once the Horde arrives we can simply... blend in."

Torgus nodded, but Greshka was not paying attention. Rather, she was crouched dangerously close to the cliff edge, one hand held above her forehead, and squinting.

"What is it?" Torgus asked, staring in the same direction. Orcs had keen eyesight, but Greshka's was superior to both Torgus' and Torgall's. As such, neither, nor Meilosh, could see what she was trying to make out.

"There's an attack approaching," she said quietly, "many Kaldorei... and... something large. A being of great power."

Even as she spoke, to their shock and awe, several clusters of trees in the smaller clearings abruptly disappeared entirely - whole sections of the forest completely _regrew_. The orcs gaped, having never seen such an amazing spectacle. Speechless, Torgall rounded on Meilosh for an explanation. The furbolg, however, was just as stunned as they were.

"The Forestlord..." he gasped, eyes wide, "The Forestlord returns!"

"What is this?" Torgus said sharply. "Who is the Forestlord?"

"Ancient being... powerful being, fought the demons many, many ages ago," Meilosh said in a low voice heavy with respect. "He watches over the land and is a close friend to the moon children..."

The three orcs looked at one another, each knowing what the other was thinking. The Warsong clan, and consequently the stability and continuity of the Horde's presence in this land, was in serious danger.

"Meilosh," Torgall asked hurriedly, "is there a fast route back to Ashenvale? One which won't take longer than a day?"

The furbolg paused, thinking hard. Torgall impatiently paced back and forth while Torgus knelt next to Greshka, who was still squinting into the distance, the former being only slightly amazed at how sharp her vision could be.

"We can take you through another forest," said Meilosh after a few minutes, "but it very special to moon children. High chance they attack."

But Greshka shook her head.

"Currently, they're very focused on the Warsongs, and moreover I doubt they'd have expected us to get a stronger presence outside the lumber camp as of yet," she said. "If the Kaldorei are anything like the humans, they're going to think of us as mindless savages first, and like strategic thinkers last. They won't be the first to underestimate us." She frowned slightly. "How far is this sacred forest from Ashenvale?" she asked.

"North, long distance away, but Timbermaw Hold has entrance there," replied Meilosh, "So the distance is shorter than if you travelled through Azshara."

"In that case, there's a good chance that any Kaldorei we happen upon won't realize who or what we are yet," she added. "and Meilosh and his brethren are suppsoed to be allies of the Kaldorei... perhaps we can use that to our advantage."

"We're putting an awful lot on chance here, Greshka," Torgall warned. She shrugged.

"It's the best we can hope for. What other alternatives do we have?"

"Humph. Would that we had the zeppelins right now," snorted Torgus.

"You'd trust inventions by goblins, then?" Torgall asked snidely.

"Goblins?" interjected Meilosh, "There are goblins here."

"There are?" they all said sharply. The furbolg nodded.

"They have small town north of here, Everlook," he explained, "say they're part of stee mwedil car-tell. Meilosh not know what that means, but... maybe they can help?"

The orcs stood considering silently, weighing the options. If they went back the way they came, they would likely arrive too late to assist the Warsong clan, and there would be a strong likelihood of being attacked by demons once more. If they traversed the sacred forest Meilosh told them of, they would ptobably arrive much sooner, but there was an even higher chance of an attack from the Kaldorei, which could delay them, or result in capture or death. Or, they could find this town of Everlook, and negotiate transport via zeppelin, or some other contraption. Of course, goblin inventions were known for their liability to be slightly less than effectual, up to and including fatal accidents, but they had at least proven sound during the Second War, as Greshka and Torgus could both attest.

Meilosh stood to the side, looking at each orc in turn as they deliberated, waiting for their response. After a few minutes of silence, they huddled together and conversed in low mutters, with the occasional grunt of protest or amusement at some grim joke. Finally, Torgall looked up.

"Meilosh," he said, "please guide us to Everlook."


	13. Everlook

**Chapter 13: Everlook**

The group stood at the junction, scratching their heads and frowning.

"That way take us straight to Everlook," said Meilosh, pointing to the left path, "and ends in a cliff, not too big, can climb down, but first have to go through big wildkin den. They close friends to moon children, but they also don't like intruders and can be very aggressive-"

"No wonder they're such good pals, then," Greshka muttered with a smirk.

"-and that way is safer route, but longer," he continued, apparently not having heard her. Torgall grimaced. It always seemed to come down to a choice such as this - the shorter dangerous route, or the longer safer route. Why could there never be a short and safe route?

"How long does that route take, Meilosh?" he asked, indicating the longer of the two. Meilosh opened his mouth, paused, thought for a moment, then pointed at the sun and drew an arc through the sky. Torgall raised an eyebrow, not at all sure what that gesture meant, but Torgus said thoughtfully, "I think he means several hours,", to which Meilosh nodded vigorously. Torgall swore; that would take much too long.

"And the wildkin den?" he asked with some trepidation. Again, Meilosh raised a paw, but made a much smaller motion. Torgall took that to mean roughly one hour.

So be it, then. Though he had a very good idea as to how this would proceed.

"We go through the wildkin den," he proclaimed. The others made no protest but simply nodded and drew their weapons; perhaps he was more of a leader than he thought, as he and Meilosh did likewise.

The den was a strange and shadowy little valley that reminded them of the dark forests of Ashenvale, due to most of the shade being provided by tall, stretching trees. Here and there, nests had been erected at the base of the trees, but these were not small nests constructed of twigs and leaf-litter; no, these were gigantic bowls woven from entire _branches_. Torgall shuddered at what manner of beast had built such a monstrous home for itself.

As they crept as silently as they could through the snowy den, Torgall wondered to himself who this 'Forestlord' was. Meilosh had spoke of him - or her? - in such an awed voice that bespoke a great wisdom and power in the being, whatever it was. It was apparently ages old, and if it were a defender of the land, as he had described, then Torgall felt quite uneasy at what repurcussions might impact the Warsong clan. Hellscream and his ilk were so hot-headed and battle-ready that negotiations were not likely going to take place; but, he also considered, the Kaldorei were not exactly diplomatic, either.

His musings were brought to an abrupt end as a savage roar, which also had the slight sound of a squawk, echoed around them. The particular nest area they were in at the moment was rather circular, with another passage of trees on the opposite end. The sound could have come from anywhere.

Meilosh readied his spear and gave them a meaningful nod, but there was no doubt as to what had made the sound; evidently, the wildkin had not approved of their intrusion. Torgall looked around warily, while Greshka held an arrow notched, and Torgus swung his axe back and forth, like some vicious pendulum, in preparation for battle.

All at once, the group noticed a movement of shadows at the base of one particular cluster of trees. As they watched, one of the most bizarre creatures they had seen yet - a difficult feat, given what they had seen thus far - emerged from the snowy trunks. Torgall heard Greshka gasp while Torgus grunted in half-shock, half-disgust, as the huge figure came into full view. It was large and feathered, with two wing-like limbs coming out the sides which ended in talons, not unlike its huge feet, which resembled taloned paws. The face was truly strange, with a short, curved beak for a mouth and antlers cresting its head. Strangely enough, the feathers around the chest area were adorned with beads and other primitive looking jewelry. The legs were scaly, not unlike a bird's, and its eyes were narrowed in cold fury.

Strangely enough, while it had all the appearances of an oversized bird, particularly that of an owl, something about the way it carried itself reminded Torgall of a bear, addmitedly one that had reared onto its hind legs.

The beast gave another squawking roar, and the group looked at one another in apprehension. Those wicked talons looked like they could tear through leather armour and flesh alike in a single swing, and its size - it must have easily weighed comparable to a tauren - would be ample to enable it to deliver tremendous blows. The orcs looked to Meilosh for guidance.

"What do we do?" breathed Torgall, having not taken his eyes off the creature.

"Do not make eye contact-" Meilosh started.

"Now he tells me," Torgall muttered, immediately dropping his gaze, and the wildkin gave another squawk.

"-and make no sudden movements," he continued. "Do not act aggressive, and do not look at young, or it will attack."

Nodding, the orcs began creeping forward, looking everywhere except at the wildkin, who continued to watch them with those unblinking birdlike eyes. Every now and then it would give a threatening squawk, but otherwise remain silent as they moved slowly and precariously through the den. Torgall simply wanted to break into a run and leave; the sooner they reached Everlook, the better, but a small part of him knew the beast was likely far swifter than its form suggested, and there were no doubt more hidden amongst the trees and nests.

There was a tiny chirrup. The group froze.

A miniature wildkin, lacking feathers and antlers, stumbled out of the trees in front of them. Torgus swore.

Immediately, the orcs and Meilosh dived to the side as, with a savage roar, the wildkin lunged at them, hoping to drive them away from its young. Torgall bared his teeth and growled - this was simply going from bad to worse. The wildkin was now frenzied and snarling ferociously at them, swiping with its talons. Torgall knew a single swipe could mean certain death.

Greshka was the first to retaliate. Having rolled backwards, she leapt to her feet, drawing her bow and notching an arrow all in one fluid movement. She fired three arrows in swift succession with her unerring aim, the arrows whistling through the air with a _thweeeeeeeee-ip_ as they lodged into the wildkin. At first it seemed as though they were well-placed shots to the neck, but a moment later, to their dismay, they realized that the thick, feathery down had absorbed most of the impact. With a growl, the wildkin gave one swing of a taloned limb, and snapped all three shafts. It stepped towards her, clicking its beak menacingly.

Torgus moved next, intercepting the wildkin with a rushing charge; against a smaller target, such as another orc, a human or a being of a similar size - even perhaps a tauren, despite the weight similarity - it easily would have stunned it for at least a few seconds. As it was, the orc veritably _bounced_ off the beast, though he at least distracted it, if only for a moment. The towering form advanced on the fallen orc, who attempted to hold it at bay with his axe, though it looked grim.

As such, Torgall and Meilosh joined the fray in tandem. The furbolg thrust his spear forward, into the mass of feathers, and made the first true strike; the wildkin gave a roaring squawk of pain and fury as the stone head penetrated the flesh underneath. As it whirled about, Meilosh only just managed to withdraw his weapon, and flecks of blood shot through the air like liquid bullets. Meilosh dodged backwards with surprising agility for one of his build as the wildkin slashed both talons at him, allowing Torgall to move in for his attack. Torgall held his axe in a readied position but made no aggressive movements; he inteded to play a deadly game. It had at least worked with the Kaldorei...

As the wildkin swung its talons at him, if only to batter him aside so it could return to attacking Meilosh, he thrust the shaft forward, catching them upon it. And, as with his battle with the Kaldorei, he yanked his weapon back towards him.

The wildkin gave a guttural squawk as it barely shifted an inch. Torgall cursed.

With its claws essentially disarmed, and Torgall's hands still locked on the axe handle, both the wildkin and its prey were effectively unable to fight hand-to-hand. As such, it began attempting to peck at the orc, and Torgall was forced to perform some macabre dance as he awkwardly doged back and forth around the axe handle; it was most definately the strangest battle he had fought in his lifetime.

Abruptly, the wildkin gave a shriek of pain, wrenching its talons off the axe handle with such force that it was pulled from Torgall's hand entirely, and it flew through the air and lodged into a tree trunk. The wildkin spun on the spot, and protruding from the neck area was another axe - Torgus'. The orc in question was now rolling to the side to avoid the frenzied wildkin which was, in its death throes, attempting to savage its killer with its talons. Fortunately for Torgus, the fatal strike caused the beast to slow with each passing moment, and after several seconds, it gave one last squawk of fury before shuddering and collpasing forward.

As Torgus strode forward and pulled his axe free from the wildkin, Torgall, Greshka and Meilosh heard an ominous growling from all around them. The group looked up worriedly, to see that yet _more_ wildkin were emerging from the trees and nests at the sound of their slain kin. Torgall could feel sweat beading as they advanced, talons raised. He groped around the tree where his axe was lodged, impatiently fumbling with the handle until it was prised free.

"Run!" he bellowed, turning on his heel and sprinting. As they ran, Greshka fired some suppresive arrows, and while they did deter some of the beasts, the rest were charging, bloodlust on their minds. With their pursuers only slightly stalled, Meilosh took his turn, reaching to his belt and detaching more of the pebbles he had used earlier, and tossing them over his shoulder. They all had obscure effects: one exploded with such force that the wildkin was thrown into a tree trunk, which crunched and splintered. Another one landed at the feet of another, and immediately thorny roots, not unlike those conjured by Kunasha, sprung from the frozen ground and lashed themselves around its scaly legs. A third was caught in a sudden gust of wind, and spun round and round; another abruptly became encased in a block of ice, and yet another simply burst into flame, reduced to ash in a matter of moments.

"Runestones... hold... many... magics!" Meilosh panted in explanation as the orcs gaped at the spectacle.

Shaking their heads, the three orcs and their guide sprinted away from the remaining wildkin, whom had became even more enraged frenzied at Meilosh's attack. Gradually, the trees around them became sparse once more, and their furious cries began to die away. However, the group did not lessen their pace.

"Wait!" Meilosh cried, stopping suddenly, "We near cl-"

He did not get a chance to finish; the orcs had turned their heads at his call, and consequently did not see the cliff he had warned them of earlier, before they entered the wildkin den. All at once, Torgall felt as though the scene and his movements played out in slow motion.

Torgus was the first to tumble forward, flailing about with a startled cry as the ground abruptly disappeared from beneath him. Instinctively, he reached out towards Greshka, who just as instinctively grabbed his hand - a mistake. Torgus' momentum, compounded with his now downward direction, nearly whipped her straight over the edge, if not for Torgall diving forward and grabbing her by the ankles. For a matter of heartbeats, it felt as though he had saved them, but their combined weight swiftly began dragging him down. Meilosh, the furthest back, mimicked Torgall's movements, but by this point it was too late; the group all rolled off the edge, shouting, screaming and cursing.

As he fell, Torgall looked at the fast approaching ground - Meilosh was right, it _wasn't _too big. None the less, the fall was definately going to h-

* * *

Gaznok Oilwrench found life as a bruiser was far colder than expected, and involved far less bruising, too. Granted, that was probably because Everlook was about as far removed from civilization as you could get, and the only real travellers that passed through were the night elves; the goblins mostly just traded with the local furbolgs. Every now and then a tauren might happen to wander through, or even a quillboar, but that was about it. He knew that Gadgetzan was being constructed at this very moment on pretty much the opposite corner of the continent, too; he expected that it had progressed little more than Everlook. Instead of biting cold to deal with, they had searing heat, and instead of blizzards, they had sandstorms.

Gaznok still had no idea why the Steamweedle Cartel thought it would be a good idea to construct towns on this long-forgotten continent - there were no orcs, humans or high elves to trade with, nor were there dwarves or gnomes to steal new inventions from. As for the native races, they quickly made clear they were firmly neutral and would provide their services at a cost. While they did not get bothered - although that was likely due to the location - they had found to their dismay that the locals shunned the use of technology, instead using nature magics to get by. And the Cartel wanted to start up a third township on the coastline! Ridiculous! When would other civilized races pass through this continent? Not for decades, by the time the Cartel had Gadgetzan, Everlook and Ratchet up and running, and had informed the other races.

Ratchet. He shook his long-eared head. Gadgetzan and Ratchet, they were goblin names, even Booty Bay, at least if you were a pirate like the Blackwater Raiders, that crazy Baron Revilgaz. But Everlook? He shook his head a second time, shivering slightly. The suits the bruisers had been issued with had been altered with ingenious goblin engineering to provide full-body warmth, but as was the norm with technology, they had a chance to malfunction. Some suits _lowered_ temperature instead, others raised it beyond healthy levels to the point of combustion, and some, as was with Gaznok's case, simply did not work at all. He cursed before sighing - at least the pay was good.

At that very moment his ears picked up a combination of yelling and roaring; quiet at first, but quickly getting louder. It ended with a dull _thwump_. It didn't take an inventor to work out what had just happened - clearly, someone, or some people, had just fallen off the nearby cliffs, which mercifully weren't too high, negating the danger of avalanches and fatal falls. Of course, the poor fools that just avoided the latter would still be aching in the morning, for sure. What had particularly piqued his interest, however, was that the shouting didn't sound like any night elves (who thus far hadn't shown themselves stupid enough to fall off a cliff in their own homeland), nor goblins from Everlook, but instead like... orcs?

All thought of the cold and dysfunctional thermal-suits forgotten, Gaznok sprinted off in the direction of the sound.

* * *

Torgall groaned as his eyes fluttered open, rubbing his head and straightening up. The fall had not been anywhere near high enough to have been even close to fatal, but easily high enough to result in unconciousness or concussion. Of course, were it not snow that had cushioned their fall, then he knew it would have been far worse. As it was, he was grateful that he, and surely the others, had survived, but that unfortunately did not ease the pain which filled his whole body with a dull aching.

It was only now that he surveyed his surroundings. He was in a small building with smaller furniture, and was lying on not one bed, but three pushed together. Tiny beds that were obviously designed for smaller creatures... smaller creatures like goblins, he thought with a smirk. He had to admit he was surprised that they managed to bear his weight. The section of the room he was in had been sealed off with ragged looking curtains. He realized belatedly that this sense of the unknown must have been how Setremedes felt when the human had awoken in his cave, under the impression of having been captured by an orc.

He shook his head. It had not even been two months, and Lordaeron already seemed like a lifetime ago. With a sigh, he lifted himself off the bed and stood up as best he could in the cramped building; evidently, the goblins of Everlook had not yet anticipated having to accomodate the taller races. He pushed aside the curtains and looked around, where there were several other of these 'cubicles', and behind three he could see some shapes: a large, bulky form, a more slender form, and a third which was similar to his own.

Before he could approach either of the three, however, a short green figure wearing thick leather clothing that had strange bulbs embedded upon it bustled in; currently, they were off, possibly burnt out or simply not turned on. Torgall was unsure what strange device the goblin had installed into his clothing but made a quick mental note not to try it himself, given the reliability of their technology. When he saw Torgall awake, the goblin broke into a toothy grin, displaying many sharp teeth, slightly too sharp for Torgall's liking. Several of these, he noticed, were gold, and sparkled even in the dim light.

"Aha! You're awake then," the goblin cried in his squeaky voice, hurring forward with an outstretched hand that seemed to resemble more of a claw, "Gaznok Oilwrench, bruiser at your service. I'm the one who happened upon you and your party."

Torgall blinked at the hand, before gingerly taking it in his own - goblins were known to be able to display surprisingly tremendous amounts of strength at times, but their bones were still smaller than even dwarves, and thus easily broken. Moreover, Torgall's whole body was still throbbing slightly, and his movements felt slightly stiff. As if he understood exactly what he was thinking, Gaznok explained.

"Ah yes, the fall broke a few of your bones, but never worry, never worry! Our medics, coupled with some failsafe goblin technology, fixed you and your buddies right up." He regarded Torgall with a beady stare. "And that reminds me; when did orcs land here? The Cartel didn't expect races from the Eastern Kingdoms - or beyond, for that matter - to be arriving so soon."

Torgall grimaced as the goblin bustled about, poking his head through the curtains to observe the other 'patients'; he did not like the idea of goblins performing surgery on him, but everything seemed to be in working order, and that was what counted.

A groan made him look around, and he turned to see Greshka, looking rather disoriented, being led from her bed by Gaznok. Torgall hurried forward.

"How fair you?" he askedin concerned tones. She started slightly, then looked at him slowly, blinking.

"Oh... Torgall..." she said, dazed. "I'm sorry, I..." She shook her head, then said in a steadier voice. "I feel like I've been hit with a sledgehammer, brought back to conciousness, then hit with a sledgehammer again."

She rubbed her head and Torgall couldn't help but smirk. As they spoke, a second grunt of pain and unsteadyness made them turn to see Torgus emerging from his bed.

"Pagh. I thought I heard you two," he grunted, striding up to them, though not without a slight stumble. Torgall clasped his hand, if only to help Torgus balance himself.

"You seem well," he said with a slight laugh. "At least we made it to Everlook. I wonder what'll happen to Meilosh?"

He nodded to the furbolg's shadow from behind the curtain. Gaznok, following his gaze, addressed him.

"Your furbolg friend will probably be out for up twenty-four hours," he explained. "He's a lot bigger you see, so he has far more mass, therefore his accelaration was far quicker and thus his velocity upon impact would have been commensurately greater, thereby rendering the force upon striking..."

The goblin continued to babble on about various equations and calculations, but the orcs were no longer listening - if Meilosh were to be indisposed for up to another day, then they would have to continue without him.

"...and so the repair process before we're able to revive him will take correspondingly longer," Gaznok finished, clapping his hands together. "But enough of my prattling! How can the goblins of Everlook be of service to you?"

"Funny you should mention that," said Torgall, deciding not to waste any time - the longer they waited, the longer the Warsongs would be under increased pressure. "We are, in fact, only passing through; our furbolg friend here guided us to this settlement. We are seeking passage to Ashenvale, the forest-"

"-at the base of the mountain, yes yes yes, we know all about the night elves' acenstral homelands," the goblin trilled quickly. "But I should warn you, they seem to disdain technology. Hate it, even. They'd very much dislike seeing a flying machine in their forests.

"They dislike us as it is," interjected Torgus. "So does this mean we can hire a zeppelin?"

"Zeppelin?" repeated Gaznok blankly, before starting towards the door. "Goodness, no! Everlook is only a small town, we have no room for zeppelins! Nay, friends, we use flying machines for aerial transport," he explained over his shoulder as he lead them outside. Once more, the orcs were thrown into over-bright sunlight and had to blink several times as their eyes adjusted, both to the sunlight and the sight of the town. Everlook might have been described as 'small' by Gaznok, but even by goblin standards they thought it seemed big.

A fairly large stone wall, large enough to repel a moderate attack, had been erected around the perimeter of the settlement. Here and there, large mechanical cranes were buzzing and grinding as they lifted up and down, though some were lifting nothing at all, seemingly just functioning for the sake of functioning. Dome-shaped domiciles and shops were spread randomly around the town, and they could see goblins within, some bartering with one another, others simply trying to keep warm. The orcs noticed that one particular group of goblins maintained a similar outfit to that worn by Gaznok - in response to Torgall's questioning glance, he merely replied with a shrug, "Bruisers."

Eventually, Gaznok led them outside the walls and to a small clearing nearby where several strange mechanical craft were situated upon the snowy ground. They had fairly long bodies, and stretched across them perpendicular to the body were rectangular flaps that reminded Torgall of wings. At the front were twin-blades, though a rotating nozzle on the front suggested that they could spin incredibly quickly. At the forward-end of the strange craft was a seat and console covered in strange dials, buttons and lights, and behind were several seats.

These were no doubt the flying machines Gaznok spoke of.

"So," the goblin said with a grin and excited twinkle, "who needs an ex-pilot who's sick of being a bruiser?"


	14. Reunion

**Chapter 14: Reunion**

The plans were made and the trio were preparing to leave. They felt guilty about leaving Meilosh behind, but they were sure he'd understand that they couldn't wait, and moreover his bulk wouldn't have been able to fit into the flying machine - it was cramped enough as it was with the three orcs without adding the girth of a furbolg to boot.

Gaznok, as it transpired, was a self-proclaimed 'expert ex-pilot' who had plenty of experience in these strange contraptions, but had chosen to become a bruiser for the good pay. He had initially been stationed at the jungle port town of Booty Bay, deep in the southern reaches of Stranglethorn Vale, and aside from the occasional raid from native troll tribes or the Bloodsail Buccaneers, rival faction to the Blackwater Raiders, life was sweet. That is, until he was transferred to the frozen peaks of this strange land, to the budding town of Everlook. The theory was that the goblins would set up towns and settlements as the pioneers of this new land, then inform the other races. Once the other races migrated across the sea, the goblins would be ready-made to offer them hospitality - at whatever price they wished. However, the arrival of the Horde, and subsequently the Alliance, as they had explained to the dismayed Gaznok, had likely ruined that plan.

"So... goblins built this contraption, huh?" Torgus asked warily as the goblin handed him a reinforced helmet. Gaznok shook his head, his ears flapping slightly.

"No no no, this is of gnomish and dwarf design," he said, his squeaky voice betraying a hint of both jealousy and contempt at the mention of gnome and dwarf engineering, "but the Steamweedle Cartel was able to... 'acquire' the plans through certain means, and we've been able to replicate the product. Of course, gnomes and dwarves don't _really_ know how to invent the good stuff, so we've made our own alterations."

The orcs grimaced at one another as they envisioned what these 'alterations' might be, and wondering how much safety and reliability had been sacrificed to compensate. Still, without Meilosh to guide them through the sacred Kaldorei forests - or night elves, as Gaznok had called them - and with the route back through Timbermaw Hold and Azshara taking far too long, this was their best bet. Steeling himself, Torgall strapped on his own helmet and situated himself in the flying machine's seat, Torgus taking the seat next to him and Greshka behind.

Gaznok, meanwhile, tottered up to the front of the machine and started rotating the blades manually. After a few moments of this, he peered over at Torgall and called out, "When I say so, push that red lever forward while depressing the right-most pedal!"

Torgall raised an eyebrow and looked at the others, who merely shrugged in a 'just do it' sort of way. Sighing, he clambered into the front seat and looked for the lever Gaznok had described. Unfortunately, the entire console seemed to be _made_ of levers, save for the buttons and flashing lights it had dotted amongst it. After a few moments of searching, however, he found an attractively obvious red lever which could only be the one Gaznok was referring to. The pedal on the right was, thankfully, marginally easier to find.

"Now!" cried the goblin. Torgall shoved the lever forward and stamped on the pedal, and with a startling crunch, the propellers abruptly started spinning of their own accord, and somewhere within the bowels of the machine an engine began rumbling and puttering away. The goblin jumped back, apparently unpeturbed by the whirling blades that could have very easily decapitated him, and scuttled back to the flying machine where the trio awaited him with some apprehension. Giving them what he no doubt considered a reassuring grin, and which they interpreted as staring death in the face, he settled down in the pilot seat as Torgall squeezed back into his own.

"This is your pilot speaking," Gaznok trilled over the growling engine, "flight from Everlook to Ashenvale is about to commence... please keep all limbs in the vehicle and enjoy the trip on goblin technology making something worthwhile out of dwarf and gnome design!"

The orcs grimaced at one another as Gaznok gave a mad cackle of glee - evidently, he despised being a bruiser compared to being back in a crazy goblin contraption. He tugged and pulled at various levers while pressing buttons, giving the impression that he was randomly fumbling about, but after several strange combinations, several lights brightened, the needles on some of the dials whizzed back and forth, and steam issued from the hull of the machine. At first they thought something had caught fire, but Gaznok gave a cry of delight as he slammed the pedal Torgall had activated from before, and the aircraft suddenly lurched forwards. The flying machine rolled slowly along the frozen ground at first, but as the wheels gained a proper grip, it started to pick up momentum. Before long, they were travelling fast enough to outpace even the fastest wolf riders, and Everlook quickly became smaller in the distance.

However, they were still on the ground.

Torgall raised an eyebrow at his companions while Gaznok giggled and laughed wildly to himself, wondering if this strange machine could even fly at all. Perhaps it could not bear the combined weight of three orcs and a goblin? After all, it had been invented by dwarves and gnomes, so surely the design had been built around creatures with smaller stature.

All of a sudden, the front of the flying machine lifted upwards, followed by the rest of the vehicle. Greshka gave a small shriek and Torgus swore loudly as they were thrown slightly in their seats, before tightly gripping the sides. Gaznok, who could not hear them over the engine, which was practically thundering now, nor the propellers, which were spinning blindingly fast with a _thwat-thwat-thwat-thwat_ sound, did not glance back at them, but instead turned a strange handle of sorts, causing the flying machine to tilt awkwardly to the side. Again, the orcs cried and shouted in surprise, though the tilt was not enough to dislodge them. As it rolled, the aircraft steadily turned, so as to position them better and allow them to pass between the oncoming mountain range.

As they passed through said mountains, Torgall couldn't help but marvel at the sight. Beneath them, just as when they had seen it from the cliff, was Azshara, resplendent in its sinister glory; he knew that the land below hid a dark secret. Again, Gaznok began turning the craft, this time to the right, so they banked in the direction of Ashenvale. Already, the cliff face behind them seemed a great distance, and Torgall knew that, assuming this strange contraption didn't explode, as gobiln-made products had a tendency to do, they would likely be able to cross Azshara and reach the Warsong camp in a matter of hours, if not less. He found it difficult to judge distance and travel time at this height; while objects below seemed to merely crawl along, at other times they simply whizzed past.

More than once, catastrophe seemed imminent. In one scenario, the engine had abruptly, with a great amount of spluttering, ceased functioning, and the blades - 'propellors', Gaznok had screeched over the whirring and rumbling - stopped spinning. The flying machine, now failing to live up to its name, dropped out of the sky like a stone. Torgall, Torgus and Greshka were all bellowing and screaming incoherently, but Gaznok barely seemed to notice. He merely stretched casually, pressed a few buttons, pulled a couple of levers, and when that didn't work, withdrew a large spanner and slammed it against the hull several times. With an almighty _bang_, the engine kicked in once more, the propellors began spinning again and the aircraft levelled out. At that, Gaznok simply withdrew an unlit roll of tobacco, prised one of the metal plates ajar slightly, stuck it in for a moment, withdrew it, and puffed some smoke at the orcs with another toothy grin, apparently unaware, even with their looks of horror and fury, that their hearts had jumped into their mouths.

On another occasion, gas erupted from the hull once again, but this time it was not steam - it was most definately smoke. The orcs had looked at each other grimly, certain that this would be their doom. Gaznok, however, as nonchalant as ever, merely peeled back the metal plates once more and stretched as cool air rushed inside the craft - however, the turbulent winds buffeted the craft about, and the orcs shut their eyes tightly as they gripped the sides of their seats for dear life. But with some careful maneuvering, even Gaznok managed to regain control; he extended a pair of flaps from the wings and unfurled an enourmous sheet of cloth attached with thin but sturdy ropes, throwing it behind the craft where it erupted and billowed outwards, catching air within. With these modifications, the craft stabilized itself and the fire was extinguished, though with the cloth hanging from behind, the craft was moving slower. To remedy this, Gaznok twisted about in his seat, slicing each rope with a hunting knife, and eventually the cloth was freed. And still despite these setbacks, the goblin remained as cheerful as ever, navigating them steadily toward Ashenvale.

But already something was terribly wrong.

The clearing was no longer dull and greyish-brown from destroyed trees or fought battles. Everything has changed. The ground appeared cracked and barren, much like the lands further to the south. Fires raged uncontrolled in some areas, and there were strange beasts prowling about that Torgall had never seen before: hound-like with furry manes, tentacles protruding from their backs and horns pointed from above their snarling mouths. In addition, there were orcs there, but not like any orcs he had ever seen before... these ones were red-skinned, with burning red eyes that were following the craft with maliicious intent. Even as they watched, several orcs began loading up catapults.

At the head of all this, black hair flowing, eyes blazing, Gorehowl waving, was Grommash Hellscream.

Strangely enough, amidst this horrifying scene, lay a massive being, clearly dead, but one which must have wielded awesome power before it was slain. It had the lower body of a stag, yet the upper body of a man - or at least an elf-like man. His features were contorted with rage, but Torgall had a feeling that he must have looked ethereally handsome otherwise. He noticed many wounds cut in various points on the body, but they did not appear to be inflicted by normal weapons - rather, the wounds appeared of magical origin, and even from so high up Torgall could sense the wrongness about them. Something evil had inflicted those strikes. But even as they watched, Torgall knew what had happened, and who had done it.

The Warsong clan had slain the Forestlord.

"I think we had better get out of here!" Gaznok screeched nervously over the engine and propellors. As he spoke, the orcs below finished loading a catapult, and fired it. Gaznok gave a startled cry, and forced the flying machine to do a swift barrel roll to avoid the projectile. Once more, the orcs were nearly thrown from the aircraft, but by this point they had enough sense to hold on.

"Torgall!" Greshka screamed from behind, and he glanced down - several archers were loading their longbows.

"Get down!" he cried, and they all ducked - arrows, wickedly jagged, sliced through the air, ripping holes in the flying machine's wings. They felt the craft drop a few metres.

"There! Down there!" Torgus bellowed over the noise, pointing several kilometers southwest of the Warsong camp - the Horde! Strangely enough, directly adjacent was also an Alliance base, but neither, fortunately, appeared hostile. Indeed, they could make out some orcs and humans, pointing at them and exclaiming at the spectacle of an aircraft being assaulted by the Warsong clan.

Even Gaznok looked down, and unfortunately that nearly cost them their lives. A fiery boulder thrown by another catapult hurtled towards the craft, and while he wrenched it to the side, the projectile still struck the hull, nearly knocking the flying machine striaght out of the sky. The group yelled and screamed as it began plummeting in a spiral, and alarms and lights started blazing and shrieking, even as yet another fire erupted from the side of the plane.

"We're going down! Eject, eject!" screamed Gaznok, mashing a bright red button frantically. It was too late, Torgall thought, the craft was drawing closer and closer to the ground, surely they were going to die...

All at once, the orcs gave a shocked cry as they were thrown bodily from their seats just milliseconds before colliding with the ground - they pelted five, ten, twenty metres into the air before plummeting back down with a crunching _thud_. Behind them, the flying machine slammed into the ground and erupted into a huge fireball with a tremendous explosion to boot, the metal twisting and curling, the wood and cloth being reduced to ash. Gasping for air, the group barely managed to raise their heads, hardly daring to believe they had just escaped the same fate.

Panting, the group managed to stagger to their feet. Nearby, Torgus was leaning against a tree, violently sick.

"Never... again..." he heaved. "I'll battle humans... night elves... demons... but you'll _never_ get me in one of those infernal contraptions again... never again..."

"Oh, harden up," said Greshka, punching him lightly on the arm - she looked fairly pale, but was able to at least remain steady. Torgall went over to Gaznok, who appeared out cold, but with a tentative nudge, the goblin gave an extremely long groan and his eyes opened, barely.

"I think... being a bruiser... might have been a better choice," he said faintly. With a sigh, Torgall lifted the goblin to his feet - for a moment, he swayed awkwardly, threatening to collapse once more, but then managed to right himself. The group had only just managed to pull themselves together, however, when the bushes around them started rustling ominously, dark shapes moving about in the undergrowth. They readied their weapons.

"Stay yaselves, mon, we're here to be escortin' yas back."

At that, Torgall's heart lifted - he knew that voice quite well. They lowered their weapons, and out from the bushes stepped the lanky blue form of Rakaji, spears slung around one shoulder and grinning widely.

"So what happened, huh? You mons missed da zeppelins!"

Chuckling, Torgall stepped forward and clapped the troll on the shoulder. It was good to see a familiar face.

"Torgall? Torgus?"

"Greshka?"

Again, he looked up at the sounds of those familiar voices. The rest of the patrol party had stepped out, a few orcs and a couple of tauren. And amongst them...

"Fenris! Kunasha!" Torgall explained, grinning further. Greshka, too, ran forward, hugging Kunasha - Torgus stumbled awkwardly, his stomach having finished torturing him, but he managed to shake Fenris' beefy paw.

"So, you mons all knowin' each other, den," said Rakaji. "Happy little reunion, this. Come on, we be bringin' ya back into da fold. And who be yer little friend?" he added, indicating Gaznok, who was swaggering forward drunkenly.

"This is Gaznok Oilwrench," Torgall explained as they pushed their way through the vegetation, "he's the one responsible for... 'returning' us to Ashenvale."

Fenris grunted, and Rakaji grinned.

"You be trustin' goblin technology, mon?" he said without a slight jeer, "Ya be crazy as they be."

"_You_ were willing to get on their zeppelins," Torgus pointed out. Rakaji shrugged.

"Ain't had no choice, brudda... but dat be beside da point. We got bigger fish ta fry."

"We wouldn't mind knowing what's going on here ourselves," Greshka said, her eyes suddenly ablaze. "What's happening here, Rakaji? We saw it from the skies - demons, fel orcs - there's clearly demonic magic afoot here."

"Dat be da biggest understatement I heard yet, mon," Rakaji said, shaking his head sadly. "From what we've bin able ter tell, da Warsong clan came under attack by them elf-women, but dis time dey be bringin' one nasty brudda wid dem - he was far too powerful for dem to handle. As it transpired, dere was a fount o' demon blood nearby, and Grom, he takes his whole clan dere and makes 'em drink it. They slew dat stag-man, slew him good dey did. But then dey be losin' control... they're attackin' both da Horde _and_ the Alliance!"

"Why are the Alliance here as well?" asked Torgus, "Why are they battling alongside us?"

"See for yourself, mon," said Rakaji, shrugging and cutting aside the last of the ferns outside the Horde settlement. Beyond, the group saw a particularly strange sight - humans and orcs, trolls and dwarves, tauren and elves, all working together. Maintaining defenses, keeping watch, amassing resources. At the head of it, they could see Thrall, deep in conversation with a slender woman in pure white robes and carrying a carved wooden staff - Torgall began recalling Hellscream's earlier words: "apparantly a frail girl named..."

"Dat be Jaina Proudmoore," said Rakaji, following Torgall's gaze. "She be the leader of the humans here, she an' Thrall be makin' a pact, a deal or somet'in'."

Torgall, however, was not listening. The two leaders, deep in discussion, no doubt about plans and strategies, were standing amongst priests, shamans and magi, though for what reason Torgall could not discern. What had caught his attention, however, were a familiar human warlock and high elf mage...

The human and elf were deep in conversation, but even as Torgall approached, the human happened to glance up. His eyes widened slightly, then he smiled awkwardly and waved his hand. The high elf simply raised an eyebrow but made no movement.

"Lucethious Manadawn and Yulgash," Torgall rumbled to them both. The former merely nodded, but Yulgash replied, "Torgall, fancy seeing you here."

"'Choo know these two den, mon?" said Rakaji, joining them. "Dey be givin' us lotsa trouble when we tried to find da Oracle. Powerful spellcasters."

"Well, Lucethious is," Yulgash said quickly, "I was expelled from Dalaran with only having completed my apprenticeship; I'm not a fully-qualified wizard like he is."

Lucethious sniffed slightly but made no comment. Evidently, he did not approve of this joint attack between the Horde and Alliance.

"Don't mind him," Yulgash whispered, "he doesn't feel your people should be here... and he feels less enthusiastic about fighting alongside them."

Torgall realized Yulgash had used 'your people' as opposed to 'the orcs' or something else that would objectify them; he appreciated that.

"And how do you feel about the situation?" he asked quietly. Yulgash shrugged.

"If we need to battle alongside each other, then so be it. I know what the Horde did to the Alliance in the Wars, but you all seem... different now."

Torgall chose to capitalize on that and said, "We fight for ourselves and survival now, as I said earlier, - the Horde has no quarrel with the Alliance in this land. We will fight you only out of necessity."

Yulgash remembered those words, nodding.

"And so now we fight together," the orc continued, looking toward where the corrupt Warsongs had transformed and corrupted the land utterly. "Against a common enemy..."

Even as he and his friends stood firm, staring at the danger of their own brethren threatening to undo all they had strived for, Torgall knew that while the true threat was only just beginning to show itself, together, they could, and _would_, prevail.


	15. By Demons Be Driven, part 1

**Chapter 15: By Demons Be Driven, part 1**

"They come."

Torgall looked up, staring in the direction Fenris had indicated. The tauren was pointing to a ridge in the distance, directly north of the Horde's settlement. The statement was fairly unnecessary; the guard towers erected at the entrance had already long spotted them, and the archers were loading their bowstrings.

"Suppose we'd best meet them, eh?" Torgus said eagerly, grinning in anticipation of battle. Torgall nodded somberly and they rose as a trio. Kunasha was not with them, but instead consulting with the elders; Fenris had already done likewise with the shamans. As it was, they had brought the entire Direhoof _tribe_. Apparently, Cairne Bloodhoof had met up with Thrall during the Horde's ascension to meet with the Oracle, and had sworn allegience to the Horde in exchange for helping them to the grasslands of Mulgore. Cairne had sent messengers to as many tauren tribes as he could, requesting their aid, to which the Direhoof tribe had responded admirably. Fenris and Kunasha said they were both proud to offer their tribe's abilities.

They strode over to the towers as the archers sounded the battle horns. Torgall glanced up to see Greshka wave down at them encouragingly before glaring at the oncoming orcs - she relished the thought of slaying the demon-tainted. Behind them, grunts and tauren assembled at the sound of the horn, along with some wolfriders. Shortly thereafter, they were joined by footmen and a pair of knights, along with some dwarven riflemen. The Warsong orcs approached, numerous and intimidating, though their numbers were still fewer than the Horde and Alliance assembled. However, they were physically bigger, stronger, and simply more imposing.

All at once they charged forwards, axes, clubs and swords raised, screaming and shrieking for blood. The Horde bellowed their own battle-cries and charged, and though the Alliance momentarily faltered at this alarming sight, they too joined the battle.

As Torgall leapt into the fray, bringing his axe to bear, one grunt recognized him from when he and the others had taken up tempoary residence in the Warsong lumber camp.

"_You _are the humans' lapdogs!" he bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, "_We_ serve the Burning Legion now!"

The taunt sent Torgall's mind aflame - how _dare_ these monsters, these... aberrations to orcs mock them so! With a savage roar, Torgall swung his axe, brutally slicing into the fel orc, whose eyes widened in surprise as his innards spilt outwards. Torgall wrenched his weapon from the Warsong orc, spitting on the twitching body.

Fenris entered the battle with slow, steady confidence. Raising his totem, he brought it down with a crashing slam, knocking several nearby orcs off their feet. He extended a paw, palm out, and muttered an incantation, praise to the Earthmother. As he spoke, lighting crackled to life in his paw, wreathing and snaking entirely around his arm. As he finished the incantation, he swung his arm and pointed at a fel orc, and the lightning leapt from his arm, striking the orc and illuminating his entire form. The fel orc shrieked as the lightning burnt his body, leavng him a charred corpse, but the devastating attack did not stop there - it jumped to another fel orc, though it did not burn him as severely as the first, then jumping weakly to a third, who was burnt only mildly. The third whirled about, snarling and glaring at his attacker.

Fenris made no move to stop the slavering orc from charing him - two of his tribesmen intervened for him. One slammed the charing orc with a meaty fist, and while the Warsong tried to rise, the second brought his totem down with a sickening crunch.

Nor were the humans and their allies sitting idle. Footmen battled alongside the grunts, though unfortunately they were smaller and weaker than both their allies and opponents. One fel orc lunged for a footman and lifted him bodily from the ground, tossing him aside like a ragdoll - he slammed against a tree and did not rise. The dwarves, while expert marksmen with their rifles, were also at a similar disadvantage. One was struck with a warhammer twice his own size, instantly killed. Another, whom had attached an axe-like blade to the end of his barrel, was attempting to fend off a battle-crazed fel orc, who was raining down furious blow after furious blow. It was not long before the orc's axe struck true, literally cleaving through the gun barrel and into the unfortunate dwarf, spending a spray of blood into the air.

Abruptly, there was a scream from above, and the defending forces glanced up, then immeditely scattered as bits of flaming wood and debris rained down upon them. A flaming boulder had landed behind them, having careened completely _through_ one of the guard towers, killing several of the orcs within and injuring others. Situated upon the ridge, being manned by a pair of fel orcs and a strange but clearly demonic creature was a deadly looking catapult, with spikes that had dried blood caked upon them. Even as he looked, Torgall could see them loading another deadly flaming projectile into it.

Unfortuantely, most of the defending forces were too caught up dealing with the invading Warsong orcs, who, despite their smaller numbers, were cutting a bloody swathe through the defenders. Torgall pushed through the orcs, humans, dwarves and tauren until he was at the base of the second guard tower.

"Get down!" he bellowed. "Get out of the tower!"

The archers above did not need telling twice - they scrambled down the wooden ramps, Greshka amongst them. Torgall watched, teeth clenched, as the fel orcs and their demon companion continued loading the catapult...

"Come on..." he breathed impatiently to himself, "Come on!"

They were not a moment too soon. The last orc had barely touched the ground when the second flaming boulder veritably _exploded_ within the tower, sending flaming metal and wood everywhere. Again, the defenders were forced to scatter as they tried to avoid the deadly rain, but they had barely managed to regroup when an ominous creaking made everyone, attacker and defender alike, look up apprehensively.

The weight of the flaming boulder, coupled with the flames licking at the swiflty deterorating wooden structure, was putting far too much strain on the remaining supports that had not been blasted out of place from the initial impact. All of the combatants fled as, with one last mighty creak, the tower began to sway, teetering towards the battle. Flaming planks as tall as a tauren and just as heavy thundered down, adding to the chaos. Torgall dived to the side to avoid the burning lumber, fixing his eyes upon the catapult on the ridge as he straightened up. The threat was clear.

"That catapult is going to kill us all if we don't do anything about it! Fenris! Greshka! With me!" he shouted over the din. "Torgus! Clear us a path!"

The Dragonmaw veteran looked up and grinned. With a tremendous bellow one would not expect from an orc of his age, he charged forward, bowling aside a pair of fel orcs, who seemed just as surprised as the Alliance defenders at his vigor. He swung his axe heavily, though his intent was not to kill or even injure, but simply to buffet aside any obstructions in the way. The flat side of the axehead slammed into a footman, sending him spinning into a pair of fel orcs, and together they fell over in a jumbled mess. Using the very edge, he nicked another fel orc's arm, causing the orc to whirl upon him, snarling; Torgus slammed his fist into the Warsong's face, causing him to reel back. Behind him, Torgall, Greshka and Fenris advanced until, with careful weaving, they had broken through the line of attackers.

"Torgus!" Torgall commanded, panting slightly, "Stay back and help hold the line! Try and maintain some cohesion with the defenders!"

Torgus nodded eagerly, raising his axe briefly in salute, before rejoining the battle with a warcry. The other three instead sprinted towards the catapult. The fel orcs and their demon companion could hardly miss this, and readied themselves. The demon was tall and had a very muscular build, not unlike an orc, save that his skin was orange-brown and he stood straight-backed. Moreover, he wore heavy plated boots that reached his knees, and had a wickedly spiked pauldron with armguards and helm to match. Curiously, however, his entire torso was exposed, though Torgall was grateful for that opening. The demon also carried a huge poleaxe, which he was now swinging impatiently like some obscene pendulum.

They did not keep them waiting. The group rushed forward, Torgall's axe raised, Fenris' totem held high, Greshka's bow at the ready. The fel orcs met them first, one wielding a cruelly barbed sword, the other hefting a huge warhammer. Fenris met the hammer-wielder first, dodging under the vicious swing with surprising grace for one of his size and build and headbutting the orc's chin, though not with his horns. The orc staggered back, off-balance. At the same time, Torgall's axe sliced through the air, meeting the other orc's blade in mid-swing. Sparks flew between them as metal clashed with metal, and between the axehead and sword blade, Torgall's opponent snarled and slavered, barking inarticulate insults, spittle flying from his mouth. Torgall shook his head digustedly - is _this _what his people were to be reduced to?

No, he thought. They would not become so corrupt. With a furious roar backed by sheer force of will, Torgall wrenched his axe back and kicked forward. The fel orc, not expecting such a strike, stumbled back a few steps, but swiftly recovered. Torgall cursed - he should have expected that. Nonetheless, he had bought himself at least a small amount of breathing room. Readying his axe once more, he rushed forwards, bringing it down in a heavy, diagonal slash. The fel orc parried the blow with startling swiftness before giving several retaliatory strikes - Torgall, underestimating his opponent, dodged a few, but was ultimately cut across his chest to his waist, his leather armour doing little to stop the jagged blade ripping through it. The blow was fairly light, as he was still dodging backwards, and so the wound was not deep, but some demonic aspect of the weapon caused the wound to produce excruciating pain. Torgall bellowed, momentarily stunned by the agony.

It was Greshka who saved him - with several well-placed shots, she was able to stall the orc. Against a smaller, less magically-infused foe, they would have been fatal, but as it were the fel orc merely stumbled back, growling in pain and anger as the shafts buried themselves into his flesh. Greshka, meanwhile, dragged Torgall aside.

"How is it?" she asked urgently, tearing the leather harness aside to see to the wound. Torgall merely gave a grunt of pain in response. It was not pretty - the jagged blade had rent the flesh terribly, and it was fortunate that it had simply been a glancing blow; already, blood was beginning to seep from the wound. Torgall bared his teeth, but refused to be overcome by the pain. Greshka shook her head as he rose, refusing to be beaten.

Axe raised once more, Torgall began a new attack. This time he took to the offensive, utilizing the pain to accentuate his strikes and blows. Again and again, the axe fell, battering the fel orc's blade aside. Pain and fury at the Warsong's corruption drove him on, and he could feel his blood pounding in his ears, a thumping harmony with each renewed slash. The battle fury guided his strikes, they were more than a mere berserker's attacks, and the fel orc was further put on the defensive, until at last, Torgall felt the satisfying cleave as flesh parted under his axe blade, followed by the usual spray of blood. Shaking his head briefly to clear his vision, he saw that the axe had sunk deep from the neck, into the chest of his opponent - the fel orc's blade had slipped from his fingers, and his hands twitched obscenely while his mouth, locked in a grotesque snarl, worked furiously, though little more than an enraged gurgle escaped. Torgall pulled his axe free, then brought it down for a second horizontal slice, and the headless body fell forward, throwing dust and blood everywhere.

Fenris had been no less efficient. After recovering from the intial charge, the fel orc he was facing had lunged at him, swinging his warhammer in a wide arc. Fenris had held his totem fast, blocking the strike entirely, though he had empowered his weapon with the stength of rock, such that the totem did not splinter or crack like a tree trunk, but instead absorbed the strike with the toughness of the earth itself. Muttering an incantation to the Earthmother, Fenris manipulated his weapon to no longer strike its targets with the bite of rock, but instead with the fury of wind. His retaliatory attack was blindingly fast - the fel orc gaped as Fenris swung the totem far faster than such a bulky weapon should have allowed, but Torgall and Greshka knew that it had been empowered with the powers of the elements. Indeed, as the totem slammed into the orc, sending him spinning, a brief wind kicked up around the tauren, forming a just-visible tornado around him.

The fel orc was not about to be defeated so easily, however. Content with relying on brute strength alone, he renewed his attack, bringing the warhammer down with enough force to crush even the most steadfast of defenses. Fenris was not, of course, a fool, and gracefully avoided the savage swipe, but the fel orc used the tauren's momentum against him - as Fenris moved to the side, the orc's foot swung out and slammed into his midriff - taken by surprise, Fenris nearly toppled over.

He was not about to let himself be defeated for a brief lapse in concentration, however. Straightening his wolf-head pauldron, he turned to face his attacker, eyes ablaze. Raising his paws, he shouted praise to the Earthmother, and the orc was shocked with the force of the very earth. Fenris charged forward, his shaman-clad, horned form posing a truly intimidating sight, and brought the bone-encrusted totem down with the fury of the storm, the strike emitting a tremendous thunderclap - once more, he seemed to form a zephyr of dust and wind around him, and the orc was struck with such force that, even with his enhanced weight and girth, he was lifted bodily from the ground and thrown almost twenty feet. He did not rise.

At last, the demon finally took action. Up until this point, he had merely been watching the fel orcs battle with minor amusement, shaking his head disgustedly as they were each dispatched. Now that he was alone, he raised his poleaxe and stepped forward, muttering in a surprisingly smooth voice, "Too pathetic to fight your own battles..."

Despite having a form and build very similar to the fel orcs, and heavy plated armour to boot, the demon moved alarmingly lithely and with stunning agility. Clearly, this demon had been bred for one thing, and one thing alone - battle.

But then, thought Torgall, pushing past the pain of his wound and gripping his axe tightly, so had orcs.

The demon struck first, his poleaxe seemingly slicing through the very air itself, and Torgall and Fenris both dived to opposite sides to avoid the attack. Each knew it would have been certain death - the enormous weapon, coupled with the savagery of the strike, could easily rend an orc or tauren in two. The demon, having noted Torgall's injury, rounded on him first. The demon advanced, weapon raised...

And roared in pain as several arrows clattered off its helm.

Torgall blinked - surely simple arrows could not have enough power to penetrate that thick, plated helm? But as the demon turned to the side in fury, he could see it clearly: one of Greshka's arrows had, by chance, struck not the helm, but instead pierced into the demon's eye. Green ichor-like blood oozed from the ruined eye - the demon wrenched the shaft out with a disgusting rasping _squelch_, and threw it aside. Snarling, it moved for Greshka instead.

She was not at all peturbed by the huge form looming towards her - on the contrary, she grinned as she drew her blades, eager to spill demon blood. She decided to allow the demon to make the first move, if only to be able to counter its next attacks more effiently. As it raised its weapon, she lifted her blades to block...

And gave a scream of fury as the strike _shattered_ the elven swords.

Snarling, she cast aside the jagged handles and leapt back, drawing her bow and firing several shots with startling swiftness. However, while they pierced the exposed torso of her adversary, the arrows did little to alter the demon's course. She looked about wildly for a means of escape.

Now Torgall came to return the favour, burying his axe deep in the demon's back. He gave a furious bellow, spinning on the spot and grasping the orc by his throat in one thick, gauntleted hand. Torgall spluttered and growled, attempting to free himself, but the heavy fingers alone were half as wide as his arm, and his oxygen-deprived body was swiftly weakening.

In his fury, however, the demon had forgotten a crucial combatant - Fenris. The tauren barreled into the hulking form, and while the demon was only knocked a few steps aside, he released his hold on Torgall. Still wishing to be rid of his aggressor, the demon lifted one of his massive boots, intent on bringing it down on the fallen orc.

Not if Fenris or Greshka had anything to do with it, however.

The tauren struck first, slamming his totem into the demon with such force that he literally buckled, falling to his knees; Torgall barely managed to roll aside. Dazed, the demon tried to shake his head, splattering the ground with green blood from its eye. Again, Fenris brought the mammoth totem down, dropping the demon on all fours as he tried to come to terms with the attacks. But not before Greshka could deliver the finishing blow: having retrieved the broken handles of her longblades, she leapt forward, giving another enraged scream as she drove the jagged metal deep into the demon's exposed flesh where the nape of the neck met the back, severing the spine and, despite now being only comparable in length to daggers, literally piercing through to the other side of the flesh. The demon gave a gurgling roar as he keeled over, succumbing to their combined might.

As the orcs removed their weapons from the demon's carcass, Fenris surveyed the burning towers from the ridge. With the destruction of the catapult and subsequent removal of a source of confusion, the defenders had managed to regroup and the fel orcs in the attack had been heavily reduced in number. Torgall chanced a glance at Greshka as she angrily observed the broken longswords and picked up the pieces - she was not at all pleased.

"Look at this!" she snarled, waving one of the handles under his nose - it barely nicked it, drawing blood, though she either did not care or notice, "Perfect craftmanship, these have served me reliably for months, years even! Broken! In a single strike!"

"Perhaps they have been worn down over the years," Fenris offered, "and one forceful blow was enough to break their strength?"

"Bah!" she snapped, though made no argument. However, it was clear she was trying to find something to rage and storm about; Torgall decided it would be wise to head off such a confrontation.

"Come," he interjected, "let us recover from the battle - surely a smith will be able to repair the swords, Greshka; perhaps improve them."

He suddenly felt very tired; he gave a half glance down at the wound, and while the blood had spread little, he knew that some dark magic was causing this fatigue. Or perhaps it was simply the rush of adrenaline beginning to recede. Or both. Nonetheless, he straightened himself and did not show weakness to the others; Greshka growled slightly but nodded and let herself be led away by her companions, muttering mutinously all the way.


	16. By Demons Be Driven, part 2

**Chapter 16: By Demons Be Driven, part 2**

"I'm sorry, but I cannot help."

"He's saying he can't help."

"What do you _mean_, he can't help?!"

"She says, 'what do you mean, you can't help?'"

"I would have thought the meaning is apparent..."

The elf looked at them, not without a bit of disdain. Greshka, on the other hand, was glaring at him furiously, and looked like she wanted nothing more than to cut his throat with the jagged sword hilts the battle with the demon - a felguard, Lucethious and Yulgash had termed it - had left her with, the remains of her beloved elven longblades. The smith sniffed slightly, not at all peturbed by her twirling of the deadly dagger-like swords both impatiently and aggressively. Torgall repeated his most recent reply in orcish.

"Tell him," she said slowly and deliberately, "that if he doesn't start being helpful soon, I'm going to take this sword and shove it up his-"

"She's says she doesn't understand, because you are an elven smith, yet you say you cannot help," Torgall said, cutting her off. He was relieved that the elf didn't truly know what she was saying. The smith narrowed his eyes at her, before addressing Torgall in slightly calmer tones.

"I'm afraid that these longswords-" He gestured at the shards of metal the orcs had brought in. "-were crafted with a skill greater than mine, and with materials I do not currently possess. Sadly, it would be impossible for me to reforge them as they were before. I can craft a pair of lesser blades, but they would be weaker, nor as deadly."

Torgall translated these words back to Greshka, who scooped up the pieces of metal with a snarl and stormed out of the blacksmith. Torgall watched her leave, half-amused and half-exasperated, before turning back to the elf.

"Thankyou for your time," he said with a slight bow. The elf nodded, shaking his head at Greshka's departure. Torgall and Torgus exited as well, where Yulgash and Lucethious were awaiting them just outside.

"I take it did not proceed well?" Yulgash asked immediately as they began moving away from the blacksmith. Torgall sighed.

"No, I'm afraid it did not," he said heavily. "Greshka was very fond of those blades, and with good cause - an orc is as strong as her or his weapon, and vice versa, and those swords were very finely crafted. Unfortunately, your elven smith claims they are beyond his capabilities and resources to repair."

Having returned from the battle, Greshka immediately strode angrily into the Alliance half of the settlement and demanded loudly to see an elven blacksmith. Fortunately, Yulgash and Lucethious were both in earshot and, with Torgall's help, managed to placate her before she caused too loud a ruckus and directed her to one she desired to see. Greshka's initial handling of the situation had helped little, given that the smith did not understand her and she had been outright aggressive. Again, Torgall intervened before the situation got out of hand, but as had transpired, the smith was unable to assist.

"Where is she headed to now?" asked Lucethious, peering at her in the distance as she stomped sulkily back to the Horde's base. Torgall shrugged.

"She'll find her own way," he said simply, "and rejoin us when she's ready."

The mage nodded, staring off into the distance. He closed his eyes briefly, breathing deeply.

"The magic in the air... it's in flux," he said in a low voice, "the Warsong orcs are employing demonic magic... but I cannot discern-"

"I can," piped up Yulgash, brushing his black hair out of his eyes excitedly; Torgall was slightly alarmed at how eager the mage-turned-warlock was to employ demonic magic. Lucethious, however, merely shrugged.

"Very well," he said, leading the three of them away. Torgall and Torgus followed closely, trying not to meet the eyes of the Alliance forces; while they fought as one now, the Horde and Alliance truce was quite terse, and tensions could boil over with even a slight provocation. Torgus was clearly willing to rise to any challenge that may be issued, but Torgall wished to avoid an unnecessary conflict or bloodshed - how abysmally foolish it would be to turn on one another, with the victors only to be swept away by the demonic onslaught from the Warsong clan.

Eventually Lucethious and Yulgash led them to a strange building with rotating spheres elevated above it; they could feel the faint thrum of magic within. As they crossed the threshold, Torgall's hair immediately pricked on end: the air was veritibly charged with energy. Here and there were humans and elves, and even the odd dwarf, all magisters and poring over tomes or practising spells. Yulgash made for a side room, closely followed by Lucethious; Torgall went with them, though as the magisters seemed unconcerned about allying with the orcs, Torgus' curiosity was allowed free reign, and so he decided to observe the wielders of the arcane first-hand.

"After you," Yulgash said politely with a smile, allowing his companions to enter first. The room was fairly small, but the walls were lined with shelves, upon which rested many books, along with phials and containers of magical reagents. In the corner, apparently brooding quietly, was Belpep, Yulgash's imp minion. He did little to acknowledge their arrival beyond a brief glance in their direction before returning to the apparent passtime of twirling a fireball around one of his claws.

Yulgash, meanwhile, began gathering various condiments from the surrounding shelves - a variety of gems, a yellow, powdered substance, a piece of aged, gnarled wood upon which intricately carved runes had been etched, and a scroll, no doubt an incantation of sorts. He then began preparing what seemed to be a casting circle. Lucethious and Belpep seemed fairly disinterested by this, the former no doubt having done similar techniques plenty of times, and the latter generally just being plain pessimistic, but Torgall watched carefully - he had seen the shamans of the Horde perform various rituals of sorts, but this seemed quite different. First, Yuglash spread the gems in a circular fashion, taking meticulous care to do it perfectly. Next, he lay the gnarled wood in the dead centre of the circle and sprinkled the yellowish powder upon it. Torgall wrinkled his nose slightly; it reeked of dark magic.

Yulgash stepped within the circle and took a deep breath before fixing Lucethious with a stare.

"You know what to do if I'm detected," he said in a serious voice. Lucethious merely nodded. Satisfied, Yulgash unfurled the scroll, then, holding it open with one hand, lit a small flame in the other. He began reading the incantation, and as he did so, he allowed the magical flame to fall onto the powder-covered rune wood. Immediately, it burst into flame, and in doing so Torgall felt the energy in the room suddenly grow more potent - it was like gravity had gone up, or the air had swollen. Yulgash spread his arms wide, closed his eyes and began a second, different chant. As he spoke, Torgall's hair no longer simply prickled - it bristled of its own accord. Shivering slightly, he watched in awe as he felt as though the enhanced gravity bent in on itself and was drawn towards Yulgash; the young mage-warlock stood, breathing deeply, as a breeze fluttered his robe, which steadily became a full-blown gust, and then - Torgall gave a small gasp - sparks flared into life, building themselves into swirling, bright-white bands of energy that snaked about his form. After a few moments, they turned a sickly green and dark purple. Then his eyes snapped open, and Torgall recoiled slightly in startlement: they were a blazing, burning red.

And when he spoke, it was not in his normal soft, humourous voice, but deep, rough and guttural.

"The spells are complete master," he rasped, and yet his face seemed devoid of emotion; his mouth moved to form the words, and his eyes burned, but his features were unreadable.

"Excellent," they heard a second voice say, also rough but which hinted at a cruel form of roughness, and also seemed to echo about them all, yet have no origin. Torgall shivered a second time, but Lucethious and Belpep seemed unconcerned, though they were listening intently.

"We will be able to begin the siege very soon," Yulgash continued, "and the portals will be stabilized to call in more of your brethren; and there will be enough blood to turn _my_ brethren."

"Very good," came the second voice, "Soon we will flatten their puny resistance."

As Torgall watched, he saw an absurd transformation taking place on Yulgash's features. The longer he stared into those burning eyes, the more he saw the human's skin turn red, grow taut and scarred, tusks and broken teeth, a nosering... It was as though he was turning into a fel orc! And yet when he shook his head at this spectacle, Yulgash had returned to normal, save those unnerving eyes.

"In addition," Yulgash - or the orc, Torgall did not know - went on, "we have prepared our next move. In due time, we will be able to rain down the wrath of infe-"

Yulgash froze, staring blankly into space. Then, the second voice said coldly, "We have been compromised."

Yulgash screamed. Torgall stumbled back in surprise, crashing into some shelves, as the mage-warlock thrashed and writhed, clearly in unendurable pain. Torgall looked about wildly for the source, trying to figure out what to do, but it was Lucethious and Belpep who acted. Neither appeared surprised at the young human's sudden agony, but merely stepped forward with looks of concentration on their faces. Together, they both started chanting, hands and claws extended palm-out towards Yulgash, who continued to thrash about. He was now grasping at his face as though it was trying to detach from his body, and he fell to his knees, still screaming, grappling wildly with some unseen force.

Amidst this, Lucethious and Belpep's commanding and squeaky chanting rose to a fever pitch, and then Torgall saw what they were doing - the swirling energies were stretching outwards, away from the human. As they separated, the bands of energy became white once more, and as they did so, Lucethious strode forward and reached out a hand, held in a claw-like fashion towards Yulgash's head, and the swirling energies were immediately sucked into his palm. As they faded from the room, Torgall could feel reality return to normal, and Yulgash's screams died away, his eyes going from burning red to his natural brown.

Yulgash slumped forward, sweating and panting. He looked up, and to Torgall's surprise, managed to smile.

"Thankyou," he said weakly, and Lucethious extended him a hand, which he gratefully took; the elf helped him to his feet. He shook his head to clear it before continuing.

"So, you all probably got the gist of what they're planning," he said without preamble, seemingly unpeturbed by the apparent torture he had just been put through, "the Burning Legion has opened portals with the Warsong's assistance; they're likely summoning more demons as we speak. In addition, the orc whom I was possessing said something about 'blood' which they apparently intend to corrupt more orcs with. It is unfortunate I was detected so early - it sounds as though they are about to unleash a devastating attack upon us next."

As he sighed and wiped some of the sweat off his brow, Torgall blurted, "You were _possessing_ an orc?"

"Well, not quite," Yulgash said, "rather, I merely transferred my being into his body through a demon spell - essentially, I moved my conciousness via the Twisting Nether and transplanted it into the body of one of their warlocks. It's like a full possession spell, but you don't get control of the person you intend to 'move into', per se, and they also have to have some connection to the Twisting Nether, usually through use of demonic magic. However, while the lesser possession doesn't grant control, it's much harder to detect."

"But you were discovered in barely a minute," said Torgall, frowning.

"The demon that warlock was communicating with was a powerful one; a doomguard, I think. They're quite familiar with these forms of magic. Under normal circumstances, it's very dangerous to undertake this form of spying unattended; if the body in which you are possessing is detected and slain, your conciousness is destroyed with it, and your body simply... dies." He shrugged. "Indeed, if Lucethious and Belpep hadn't acted as quickly as they had, I would have likely suffered the same fate as the unfortunate warlock I was intruding upon." He gave a humourless smile. "Demons aren't known for their compassion."

As he finished talking, the door opened and Torgus entered, saying, "I was wondering where you had wandered off to, what have you-"

He stopped talking, staring at Yulgash, whom was still drenched in sweat, then at the now-scattered casting circle.

"What in the world have you been doing?" he asked, frowning. Torgall cleared his throat.

"We've been... 'spying' on the Warsong orcs, so to speak. It was... harrowing, to say the least," he explained. Torgus raised an eyebrow.

"Could you not simply scry?" he asked, to which Torgall did not know; it was Lucethious that answered.

"The Warsong orcs have warlocks and powerful demons in their command - they would have many spells and wards in effect to block that form of approach," he said, "but now, we have bigger matters to worry about. The Warsong orcs and their demon allies are planning another, bigger attack on our combined ba-"

He stopped talking as the floor - no, the entire _building_ they were standing in shook violently. They barely managed to catch themselves from falling over.

"What in the-?" Torgall muttered, staring at the ceiling. With a quick glance at one another, the five hurried out of the shaking building - and stared in horror.

The sky was no longer blue and cloudless - it had became blood red, with smoke curling and what smelt like noxious gasses wafting through the air. Even as they stared, the earth gave another tremendous quake, dropping them to their knees. Nearby, Thrall, astride his huge wolf, was watching the supernatural display along with Jaina Proudmoore, the former looking concerned, the latter looking shocked.

"Thrall!" the heard her cry, "The skies are burning!"

Thrall growled, saying "This is no natural storm!" Then realization seemed to strike him. "Blessed ancestors..." he whispered. He whirled about, magically amplifying his voice and bellowing to the joint Alliance and Horde settlement, "Everyone, brace yourselves!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than an eerie rumbling, whistling made everybody's heads turn. Looking apprehensively up, everyone could see strange green, burning meteorites careening earthward - towards _them_.

Torgall, Torgus, Lucethious and Yulgash gaped as a gargantuan, burning green missiles slammed into the ground so hard it sent rock, dirt, infantry and cavalry alike soaring. Another smashed clean through a tower, flaming wood and metal flying. Again and again, these deadly projectiles rained down upon the base, though fortunately many did not not hit buildings or the defenders, though that was not to say the damage was not significant. The dust began to settle, and silence hung over the base, punctuated by the crackling of fires or the groans of the fallen and wounded.

But that was apparently not all. Just as everyone had began to recover their wits, an ominous rumbling sounded throughout the combined base. Torgall looked at one of the craters, only to feel his jaw drop in both shock and fear.

From the smoldering crater rose a massive being that he hardly dared imagine could exist. It reminded him faintly of an elemental, but one corrupted to its very core. It was made up of several large, craggy boulders to form a vaguely humanoid shape, with a skull-like stone to complete the macabre appearance. Sickly green flames burned slowly, like magma, and Torgall knew that they could cause deadly damage. It was clear of this creature's intent - but how would they defeat such a monster?

If only to make the situation worse, from the other craters more of these demonic elementals arose, each as threatening as the last. Torgall swallowed, sweat starting to form on his face. No doubt this would be a true test of mettle.

He looked at Torgus, who nodded and unsheathed his axe, then at Lucethious and Yulgash, who did likewise, but with arcane energies erupting into life on their hands rather than drawing weapons. Gripping his own axe in preparation for battle, he bellowed his warcry to the ancestors - and together, they charged into the fray.


	17. By Demons Be Driven, part 3

**Chapter 17: By Demons Be Driven, part 3  
**

"Fight on, my warriors! We must reach Hellscream before it's too late!"

"Destroy the demons! For the Alliance!"

Thrall charged forward, Doomhammer held aloft, while Jaina Proudmoore stood nearby, casting furiously. At their command, the stunned troops rallied, a battle cheer rising, before attacking the demons themselves. Torgall and Torgus charged together, while Lucethious and Yulgash cast suppressive spells; knights and wolfriders alike charged in tandem, footmen and grunts battled alongside eachother, headhunters and archers fired with the sharpshooters.

The demons were massive and undescribably intimidating; as a wolfrider charged, his warblade held aloft, a huge boulder that made for a fist careened into him, sending both orc and mount flying. As a pair of footmen and a grunt approached, the demon raised a lower boulder and slammed the ground, sending a shockwave out that knocked all three down.

Thrall was not to be cowed, however. Raising Doomhammer, he shouted praise to the elements, calling upon their power. Swinging the mighty hammer with a two-handed swing, it caught one of the demons in the central boulder - which was even notched as if it had stone ribs - and literally _shattered_ the flaming stone. The demon quivered momentarily, as if convlusing, before the flames abruptly died and the rocks collapsed in a smouldering heap.

Likewise, Jaina Proudmoore was equally as deadly. Holding her staff high, she shouted an incantation that was audible even over the din of battle, blinding violet light enveloping her form until she glowed like a beacon. Pointing the staff forward, it shot a beam of purple light so bright it was almost white tinged with purple, which careened with the force of a cannon into one of the demons - the rock exploded, sending fragments everwhere, and the demon's remains fell apart.

Torgall and Torgus rushed forward together, each swinging their axes as one - the combined impact fractured the boulder they struck, with small pieces of stone splintering off. The flaming monstrosity looked down and regarded them with burning green eyes, and raised its boulder fist. Both orcs dodged to the side to avoid the pummeling strike, but were left unbalanced and fallen. The burning demon rounded on Torgus first.

Torgall thought wildly, trying to figure out what to do. His axe would likely be useless - it was designed for chopping, not cutting rock. Torgus was rolling side to side, trying to avoid the massive boulders attempting to crush him. What could he do?

Abruptly the demon stumbled back a couple of steps, waving its rocky arms wildly. A combined magical assault of frost and fire struck the burning form square in the central boulder. Torgall was surprised to see the fire was able to cause damage - the intense heat was capable of melting the stone slightly, and the heavy, solid block of ice struck like a magical hammer. Torgall was not surprised to see Lucethious and Yulgash had conjured these attacks, and was grateful - in the demon's brief recoil, Torgus was able to roll to the side, straighten up and get out of range. He beckoned Torgall off to the side.

"This won't work!" he panted, "Axes... they're useless against stone! We need something blunt!"

Torgall nodded - they would be of little use with their current weapons. They both made for a blacksmith, weaving in between the burning demons as best they could, dodging when they had to. The battle was chaotic - the stone demons had no concept of fear or pain, tearing through the base with ruthless abandon. That's not to say that the defenders were shirking from the attack, however - groups of grunts and footmen charged as a unit, working as one to bring the aberrations down. Wolfriders and knights charged together, swinging mighty waraxes, warblades and warhammers, utilizing their speed to confuse the demons. They seemed to possess little, if any, intelligence; Torgall surmised they knew little more than how to destroy things.

"Argh!"

He dove aside as a flaming boulder seemingly swung out of nowhere, barely avoiding the devastating attack. Torgus was not so lucky, however. He attempted to dodge, and while he was partially successful, the flaming rock still clipped him and sent him bodily through the air, landing several feet away. Torgall clambered away from the demon, rushing over to his friend. Torgus' eyes were closed, and a trickle of blood was bubbling from the corner of his mouth. Oblivious to his surroundings and the immediate danger present, Torgall shook him roughly.

"Wake up, Torgus! Wake _up_, damn it!"

He slapped his friend roughly across the face, and the grizzled veteran gave a coughing splutter before opening his eyes with a groan.

"Get up! Hurry!" Torgall yelled over the battle, without preamble. Torgus blinked several times, trying to clear his head, before gasping.

"Look o-"

Torgall suddenly flattened himself against the ground as a forceful explosion sounded from above and shards of rock rained down upon them both. His neck and arms prickled slightly where the fragments peppered him, though fortunately his back was protected by his studded leather armour. Coughing slightly as dust settled, he looked up to see Gaznok standing in front of them, holding a strange tube-like device made of metal and wood, and grinning toothily at them.

"Careful!" he said tauntingly, "That rock-head nearly got you both!"

Torgall shook his head, slightly dizzy from the blast, before Gaznok gripped him by the collar and heaved him to his feet with surprising strength. Torgall glanced at the tube while Torgus wiped the blood from his jaw. The goblin also had a number of oddly rounded objects strapped to his belt that were marked with bright red lines.

"What _is _that?" he asked, giving the goblin a quizzical look. Gaznok patted the device proudly.

"Modified mortar," he said, "I got the design from the dwarves here. Theirs is built to be fired at vertical angle to arc upwards and strike from a downward trajectory, thereby maximizing impact force by including gravity velocity and-"

"What does it do?" Torgall said, cutting across the goblin's technobabble. Gaznok grinned again.

"Well, I just changed it a little so that it fires in a more... level direction, so to speak," he explained. "Watch."

Gaznok detached one of the round items on his belt and unscrewed a cap on one end of the tube, and inserted the object into it. Screwing the cap back on, but only loosely, and attaching it with a latch, the goblin went down on one knee and rested the tube on his shoulder, squinting through a circular piece of wire attached to the open end. He pointed the tube at one of the invading demons, and pressed a trigger.

A blast almost as strong as the one they were struck by only moments earlier rocketed outwards, engulfing them in thick, black smoke. Dimly, Torgall could see the outline of the round object spiralling through the air and striking one of the demon's boulder fists, shattering it with yet a third explosion. Coughing and spluttering, he felt about for Gaznok, who was unsurprisingly lying on the ground, and dragged the limp goblin from the smoke. Torgus emerged moments after.

Employing the same technique he had used on Torgus, Torgall managed to wake the insane engineer up.

"Uh... yes..." he said sheepishly, completely covered in black soot, his bruiser uniform singed in some places, "Goblin technology... er... _occasionally_ backfires, but, there you are..."

Gaznok abruptly became thoroughly engrossed in retrieving the pieces of his broken weapon, muttering to himself about how reliable goblin technology usually was. Torgall shook his head meaningfully at Torgus, and the two continued making their way for the blacksmith. They burst through the door, rushing to a weapon rack. Most of the weapons had already been taken, but a few remained. Torgus took a massive spiked iron hammer, hefting it with a grin; Torgall took a slightly smaller warhammer, which, while not as large, allowed for quicker and more precise swings. Nodding, the two orcs exited outside to rejoin the battle.

All was chaos. Now that they were on the sidelines they could get a clear view at the battle. Several of the demons had been reduced to rubble, but there were still at least a good half dozen still tearing up the base. Thrall and Jaina were assisting as best they could, though it was proving somewhat difficult - the demons, while seemingly primitive in their tactics, had enough sense to designate the shaman and mage as significant threats, and were spending much of their time pursuing them, barrelling over any defenders that happened to be in the way. Their constant movement, coupled with their tough resilience, made those remaining difficult targets.

Torgall and Torgus stepped forward, waiting for one of the lumbering demons to stomp past. As it approached, it raised one of its boulder fists, clearly intending to batter them aside. As the flaming boulder descended, they each rolled forward towards one of the leg rocks, raising their hammers as one.

"It's hammer time!" bellowed Torgus, swinging the iron maul with all his considerable might - the spikes crunched into the stone, fracturing and splintering it with ease, sending thin lines criss-crossing all over the boulder. Torgall followed up with a quick, well-placed strike towards the centre, and the boulder veritably _exploded_ - both orcs rolled in opposite directions to avoid the deadly rock-shrapnel that showered outwards. The demon, meanwhile, stumbled forwards several paces before collapsing forwards, its boulders rolling away.

"Nicely struck," Torgall commented, and the older warrior grinned. A brief rumbling caught their attention momentarily, and they instinctively leapt apart, thinking another demon was approaching - but as they separated, Carine Bloodhoof charged past with startling agility and fervor for one of his age, his deadly poleaxe held aloft. Behind him was a retinue of tauren of varying fur colour, Kunasha and Fenris amongst them. They nodded at the pair as they passed.

"For the tribes!" Cairne roared, slamming the ground with the handle of his poleaxe, and a shockwave of energy literally rippled forward. It caught one of the demons on the lower boulder, upending it with a mighty crash. The demon rose, turning to face the elder tauren, but Cairne was far from done. Summoning his strength, he gave a vicious swing, and the poleaxe tore through a lower boulder, cleaving off a chunk. This attack was not enough to fell the demon, but it was sufficient to unbalance it. The flaming behemoth took several awkward steps, in which the tauren took swift advantage of. Kunasha summoned the strenth of the earth, calling roots to spring forth and grasp several boulders, snaring the demon in place. A few other tauren, Fenris amongst them, advanced, swinging their totems. Slowly but surely, they were able to subdue the burning mass of stones, reducing it to little more than rubble.

Detaching himself from the platoon of tauren along with his mate, Fenris led several of his Direhoof warriors to Torgall and Torgus.

"Come!" he cried jubilantly, "We shall turn the tide against these aberrations and seize victory for ourselves, purging the evil from these lands! For our ancestors!"

"Blood and honour!" roared Torgus, and Torgall grinned at the two. He readied the mace, noting at how the hammer felt far more unwieldy than his axe, but reserved to the fact that it was a far more effective weapon against these invaders. The two orcs and tauren made straight for another of the demons, Fenris and his warriors at the the head. The tauren charged, and Torgall couldn't help but be reminded of a herd of stampeding bulls. Bellowing and shouting, they each battered at the burning rocks with their totems, Fenris slamming his weapon with particular gusto. Torgall and Torgus followed up, swinging their weapons as brutally as they could without unintentionally injuring their allies. At the same time, Kunasha cast restorative nature spells on those fighters unlucky enough to be struck by the deadly flaming boulders.

And Torgall was one of those.

With a pained grunt, he felt the ground abruptly leave his feet and he was thrown through the air like a ragdoll as the boulder fist slammed into him - it felt as though he had been shot by a cannon. He crashed into the ground with a second pained grunt, feeling several of his bones fracturing; he found it miraculous that nothing was broken. Blearily, he staggered to his feet, shaking his head to try and stop the world spinning wildly, coughing at the dust that had billowed up about him as he struck the ground, and breathing heavily from being winded by the fall.

Abruptly, he felt a searing pain in his chest and he fell to the ground with a cry, his hand instinctively grasping at his torso. He gasped, trying to find the source of the excrutiating pain, fumbling about futilely. He struggled briefly before managing to remove his leather armour from himself, before crying out in shock.

The wound he suffered from the earlier battle with the fel orc was pulsing with a dull green shimmer, though beyond that it seemed unremarkable; the blood had clotted some time ago and left little more than a vicious cut. Nonetheless, something was causing that wound to send crippling waves of agony coursing through his body, dropping him on all fours, blinding him... his vision was cloudy, it went red, then started to fade, everything was going black, darkness, darknesss...

His skin was twisted. He felt vile, befouled. Something had struck him - not physically, but magically. He could not see, but he could hear... they were dying, they were being slaughtered, overwhelmed, the tide of green and black washing over them like a grotesque wave... He felt about, he had to find his brother... where was he? His father... Dimly through the darkness, he could see his father's body, mangled, savaged, splattered with blood, his limp hand still barely clutching Sirocco, his face still twisted in a furious, challenging snarl...

His father was dead... dead... his brother! He had to find his only remaining kin. He felt about through the unnatural darkness, the evil magic clinging to his body like a second skin... no, it _was_ his skin... He could see his brother in the distance, still roaring in defiance at his captors as they dragged him away. He tried to call out, but the shadows muted his voice. He was helpless, he was lost... they were all lost.

But then his brother finally saw him, calling out for his help. Torgall tried to drag himself to him, but every foot he moved, his brother travelled ten.

"Torgall..."

He would not fail! He urged himself to push on, refusing to give up...

"Torgall...!"

They were going to kill his brother if he didn't do something... on he dragged himself, but now a dark figure stepped in front of him. No, he was wrong, they were going to kill him first, then his brother...

"_Torgall_!"

The darkness was gone. He blinked several times, then gasped as reality returned to him. He was not in Farahlon... no, he was in this foreign land. The skies were still blood red, but his clan was not lying dead and dying around him. The dark figure was Kunasha - she was bending over him with a concerned look.

"Rest easy," she said softly, "you took quite a fall... I've mended your bones, at least."

"Fall... didn't do it..." he mumbled, still weak from the pain he had suffered, "cursed... strike..."

He only now noted something different about the atmosphere. The sky was still red, true, but the mood seemed different. It was no longer hectic and chaotic, but lively and cheerful. He could hear people laughing and cheering in the background, and he managed to raise his head to see that the last of the demons had been dispatched. Several buildings were burning or being rebuilt, but everyone was revelling in the victory they had achieved.

"He was attacked by a fel orc in an earlier battle," he heard someone from behind him say, and he looked up to see Greshka was standing nearby, frowning slightly. "The weapon it was wielding clearly carried dark magic of sorts within."

"Greshka," he said weakly, managing to smile, "do you not have your blades?"

"Being repaired," she replied dismissively, "but that is unimportant at the moment. How are you feeling?"

"I've felt better," he said, feeling somewhat flattered that she considered his wellbeing of more import than her weapons.

"Good, because you're going to need your strength for the next bit," she continued, before turning and waving to some nearby figures. They turned and he saw it was Yulgash and Lucethious, the former looking concerned and the latter slightly curious.

"So, a fel curse," Lucethious said without preamble. "Yulgash, would you like to identify it?"

The young human nodded, kneeling next to Torgall and placing his hand over the wound. Torgall flinched slightly, but felt no pain - something was causing the curse to lie dormant. The mage-warlock's hand glowed a slight purple, a light which spread to envelop the cut. Yulgash closed his eyes, mumbling arcane formulae to himself, before withdrawing his hand. The glow faded.

"It is a curse of weakness, but one with elements of the incantation for a curse of agony," he surmised. "The exposure to the fel energies within those demons must have triggered its effects. I do not believe you will be able to remove it alone, Lucethious."

"Perhaps you would be able to assist me with it?" the elf asked politely. Yulgash shook his head.

"I did not learn how to remove fel magic before my expulsion," he explained, "I'm afraid that it is beyond me."

Lucethious sighed, scowling slightly. "This complicates matters," he muttered.

"Perhaps I could be of assistance?"

That was Kunasha. They looked at her enquiringly, and she elaborated.

"For those who tread her path, the Earthmother grants wondrous powers - healing magic, the ability to remove taint and poison... I'm sure my abilities could be of use," she explained. Yulgash looked at Lucethious, who shrugged.

"If it works, it works," he said simply, kneeling next to Torgall and placing his carefully manicured hand over the wound. Kunasha did likewise, the soft fur on her paw tickling his chest slightly.

"I thought you did not wish to ally with the Horde, elf," Torgall said snidely. Lucethious smirked.

"My young apprentice has been able to help me see sense, _orc_," he replied wryly. "Now, this may feel uncomfortable... the magics used in removing the curse will activate its effects, if only briefly."

With that, he muttered the incantation, his hand and Kunasha's paw both flaring blue-white. Torgall snarled as the pain coursed through him once more, hot and deadly like poison. At the same time, his head swam, his vision spinning as it threatened to lose cohesion once more - exhaustion attempted to overwhelm his senses. He was not going to give in, though. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to stay awake, refusing to be overcome by weakness, and at the same time he forced himself to endure the pain. Even in the short time the magic worked, it was nearly unbearable.

After only a scant few seconds which felt like an eternity to the orc, a bright, swirling ball of energy erupted from the wound, spiralling up into the air before exploding in a burst of brightly-colour sparks. Torgall sensed power emanating from it the moment it appeared, power that dissipated immediately into the surroundings as the energy ball faded. He took a deep breath - as quickly as the pain had come, it had gone, and for that he was grateful. He looked thankfully at Lucethious and Kunasha, but the tauren was not quite finished.

"If you will permit me, I can close the wound as well," she offered. Torgall considered a moment.

"Yes, that is probably for the best," he agreed. "The sooner I forget about this accursed wound, the better."

He lay back and relaxed as the tauren's paw once more glowed, this time a soothing green. As with Yulgash's earlier spell, the glow spread to the wound, but this time Torgall could feel the tissue and nerves relax and soften, as though the very wound felt calm. He watched, partly in awe, as the caked blood faded, that underneath receded, the skin knitted, and the wound simply disappeared; all that was left was a faint, pale-green line where the flesh had been rent. He had seen the shamans employ very similar magic, and so it was not entirely new to him, but he nonetheless felt greatly humbled by the mere presence of the magic.

"I am sorry," she said apologetically, "but I cannot banish magic that foul completely. It will leave a mark."

"That is quite all right," Torgall said gratefully, inspecting the scar - he knew it could have been far worse.

As soon as they had finished, Yulgash said, "So, what do we do now?"

Torgall straightened up with a thankful bow to the tauren before fixing the human with a knowing stare.

"Now," he said, a slight glint in his eye, "we take the fight to _them_."


	18. By Demons Be Driven, part 4

**Chapter 18: By Demons Be Driven, part 4**

The forests of Ashenvale were in turmoil, suffering in muted silence as deathly magic permeated throughout them. Warlocks and demons worked feverishly to spread their corruption, which seeped into the very land, tainting and twisting it. As they worked, their brethren arrived to assist them, and the pace quickened. At the head of this operation, overseeing all, was Grommash Hellscream, chieftain of the Warsong clan. He stood proudly, red eyes blazing with hunger for battle, his chains swinging slightly in the desolate wind, Gorehowl held to one side, thirsting for blood. He could see the humans and Thrall's Horde preparing a pitiful assault against their clan... granted, they had dispatched the infernals quicker than he had anticipated, but no matter... the Warsong clan and Burning Legion would weather their petty attacks, then crush all who would oppose them...

West of the Warsong camp, where the forest had not yet withered and shirked away from the corruption, or been hacked apart from the deforestation effort, Greshka watched and waited. Her exceptional vision allowed her to survey the defenses, and take note of any weaknesses. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, she took great pleasure in picking off the stray grunt, peon or minor demon.

Almost absently, she ran her finger along the blade of one of her swords. They were almost unrecognizable now. With the elven smith being unable to assist them, she had gone to Lor'gahn, an expert weaponsmith who was also notoriously insane. It had been Lor'gahn that had crafted Torgall's axe so carefully, though the old smith had managed to stay in a presentable manner for the time being. During Greshka's visit, however, he had spoken in a loud, booming voice, his beady black eyes bright with joy at his craft, and alternatingly speaking to his weapons. She smirked to herself - mad as he was, Lor'gahn was undisputedly very good at what he did, and the blades, now clearly of orcish design, with jagged edges and orcish runes carved upon them, were now just as strong as before, but more lethal. The unique shape of the blade, while crude and brutish at first appearances, was far more suited to cleaving flesh and bone.

A worthy upgrade, indeed.

Taking note of the most recent rotation of guards, she pulled a tattered piece of parchment sitting on a nearby stump towards her and scribbled down some notes, also drawing a pair of dots and connecting them with arrows. The parchment had a basic representation of the Warsong camp drawn upon it, which she had been meticulously placing together for the past hour or two. Now, however, it seemed that they would have enough information for their infiltration.

Her task finished, she straightened up, cracking her back slightly as she did so, and stretched with a sigh. Turning silently, she rolled up the parchment and stalked through the undergrowth to the clearing where the others had struck up a camp. Torgall and Torgus were standing vigil, the former reunited with his axe, the latter having chosen to continue using the spiked iron maul from the previous battle. Lucethious and Yulgash were both standing off to the side, muttering and chanting incantations; Lucethious' eyes were closed as he spoke under his breath, and Yulgash was glowing an eerie green and purple, standing in the midst of a circle of jewels - the human mentioned something about taking possession of orcish warlocks to spy upon their operations, and the elf had mumbled something about setting up magical wards, but either way she didn't understand.

Rakaji had not yet returned, as he too was scouting, and Gaznok was crouched in the middle of the small campsite, fiddling and tinkering with a strange metallic device - it resembled a square block of metal with dials and lights upon it, and attached to the top end was a circular metal dish which occasionally sparked, rotated briefly and emitted an odd trill. Whenever it did this, Gaznok gave a little cry of delight and redoubled his efforts - whatever those were.

The only two who had not chosen to come were Fenris and Kunasha, having chosen to remain behind to help bolster the Horde and Alliance defenders, but primarily because they could not bring their entire tribe along without giving away their position - after all, an entire retinue of tauren would be strikingly obvious. They assured the group, however, that they would join them soon enough in the main assault.

Torgall and Torgus both looked around as Greshka returned, the older orc giving her an enquiring look and the younger saying without preamble, "What of it, then?"

"I've been taking note of all movements and openings, and have come up with this," she said, unfurling the map and presenting it to the warrior. Torgall took it from her and began reading, his eyes darting back and forth rapidly. As he finished, he rolled it up again, nodding at her appreciatively. Nodding in return, she went and joined the others. Torgall, meanwhile, tread softly the way she came to the forest's edge, staring through the tiny gap in the trees at the Warsong operation. His eyesight was not as adept as Greshka's, but he could see the structures and rock edifices that she had described, along with the several demons and grunts. The demons appeared disdainful of their current position, evidently disapproving of having to work alongside orcs rather than enslave them; and the grunts were quite agitated, at some points bellowing loudly and challenging one another - clearly, they desired battle and bloodshed.

Shaking his head at the sight, Torgall retreated back to the camp they had set up. When he returned, he saw Lucethious had stopped casting his spells and was talking quickly and concisely to the others. He approached, raising an eyebrow, and noticing him, Lucethious began a swift explanation.

"The wards I set up upon our arrival have been triggered," he said rapidly in quick-fire speech, "which means that there are patrols in the area. Worse yet, however, was that when I attempted to analyze the intruder, the ward abruptly went blank. Something either dispelled it or, worse, ate it."

"Something... ate the ward," Torgall repeated sceptically. Lucethious nodded vigourously - for one normally so composed, he now appeared very agitated. "Well, what does that mean?"

"Felhounds," interjected Yulgash, the energies swirling about him suddenly dissipating, and he returned to his normal form. Again, Lucethious nodded, more worriedly this time.

"And they are-?" Greshka started, and Yulgash continued, "An animalistic demon of the Burning Legion - they're very good at sniffing out and devouring magic that may be nearby. They're notorious for literally sucking spellcasters dry."

"Which means-" Torgall began to say.

"That Lucethious and I have likely put ourselves - put _all_ of us - in great danger," the young human finished with a grim look. The assembled group looked at one another anxiously.

"Rakaji is still out there," Greshka said quietly. They looked at her.

"So, what is our next move?" piped up Gaznok abruptly, looking at each of them in turn.

"Well, if the wards are already down..." said Yulgash, stroking his goatee slightly, "then I expect that the felhounds are likely just-"

His words were drowned out by a vicious, guttural snarling. It was a revolting noise, as though whatever creature was making it was gargling bile at the same time. Torgall, Torgus and Greshka already had their axe, mace and swords out - Greshka having chosen her blades due to the confined environment - and even Gaznok had drawn his hunting knife. Yulgash and Lucethious, however, were looking worried at the current situation.

"Can you not use your magic?" Torgus asked them. They shook their heads.

"Felhounds _feed_ off magic," Yulgash explained, his eyes constantly scruitinizing the clearing for movement or threats. Torgall cursed softly - they were both capable spellcasters, and if they would be unable to assist them, then their strength had diminished greatly already.

And then a truly grotesque creature burst from the bushes.

Torgall recognized it immediately - he had spotted them from the skies when Gaznok had flown them back to the Horde. Now, he got a good look at the beast. It was a good three feet in height at least, and had slavering grey jaws, which were attached to a powerful maroon body, with shaggy black fur cresting its neck and back, and milky white eyes. As he had seen earlier, there were also a pair of long, white horns protruding from the crest of the head. The creature's size and build vaguely reminded him of a wolf - he could see why it had been termed a 'hound' - but an extremely repulsive one, if that were the case. To complete the peturbing sight, a pair of black, striped tentacles were waving lazily in the air, a sucker at the end of each one that was currently closed.

The creature growled softly, then sniffed the air deeply. As it did so, it gave an excited cry that almost sounded like a yip, and as it did, the tentacles tensed and pointed at Lucethious, the suckers opening threateningly. The mage swallowed, trying not to betray a hint of fear, a feat made difficult by the sweat beading on his brow. Yulgash, similarly, looked worried.

Without warning, the demon hound gave a blood-curdling howl and lunged forward. The move was so sudden that no one had a chance to react, and then Lucethious was down, screaming as the tentacles latched on to his chest, tearing through his robes and adhering to his flesh. Torgall gaped as the grotesque creature pulsed, the appendages convulsing as if sucking something from the elf. A second look revealed magical energies radiating from the suckers, as if overflowing.

The demon was draining Lucethious' magical and life energies.

Greshka reacted quickest. Shoving past Yulgash, she brought one of her longblades down in a vicious swipe, cleaving through one of the tentacles with a rasping tear. The severed tentacle jerked back uncontrollably, spewing foul green ichor everywhere. The felhound gave a pained howl, the other tentacle whipping back instinctively, and rounded on the female orc. Greshka danced back gracefully as it snapped viciously at her, jaws slamming shut with enough force to casually tear her lower leg off. She did not retaliate immediately, but rather took another few steps back; the hound followed. As she did so, she ever-so-briefly met eyes with Torgall, and jerked her head slightly to Lucethious.

Taking the hint, Torgall moved forwards behind the hound and gently moved the elf aside, out of harm's way. He was not a moment too soon - as he settled the prone form down, three more hounds leapt from the shadows, closely followed by a felguard.

"Torgus!" he barked, "Take the felguard! I'll protect Lucethious and Yulgash!"

His companion nodded, moving forward with his mace raised. The demons moved without hesitation, and the felguard immediately went for Torgus in turn. Two of the hounds made straight for Lucethious and Yulgash, the third leaping to assist its injured companion. Greshka, noting this, wasted no time in adapting to the situation, driving one of her blades deep into the skull of the first demon hound. The beast thrashed wildly, snarling and howling, before collasping forward, green fluids spewing from the ripped tentacle and gaping hole in its head. Greshka withdrew the blade swiftly, bringing both up in a crossed formation to block - the second hound fell on top of her, snapping ferociously at her face.

With a snarl, she shoved forward, heaving the heavy demon off her. The felhound rolled roughly to the side, but quickly righted itself, diving for another attack. Greshka leant back slightly, allowing the demon's fangs to pass her face by mere inches. She wrinkled her nose slightly as spittle splattered on her face, before grasping one of her longblades firmly in both hands, and driving it up into the demon with such force that the tip of the blade just barely pierced through its shaggy mane. The demon's furious howl stopped abruptly, and for several moments its mouth worked soundlessly, before the entire form went limp. Scowling in disgust, Greshka kicked the dead demon from her weapon.

Torgall found his opponents to be more creative, and working in tandem. One would snap threateningly at him, but before he could retaliate, it would have already retreated with its brother moving forward to strike instead. He wielded a bulkier weapon than Greshka, and lacked her dexterity and swiftness, and so felt quite clumsy battling these demon-dogs. He gave a mighty swing which could have quite easily cleaved one of the beasts in two, but his axe merely sent dirt and twigs flying as the hound dodged out of the way. As it did so, the second beast darted forward, but rather than snapping at his outstretched arms, brought both its tentacles down, lashing against his wrists like a whip. Torgall roared in pain, almost letting go of his axe unintentionally, but regained himself at the last moment.

Instead, he released the handle with one hand and clenched it into a fist, slamming it into the offending hound. The demon gave a wild yip, tumbling over slightly. Utilizing the pain, Torgall brought his axe up and around - a quick adjustment of the arms, a snap of the shoulders, and the axehead tore through the demon's neck like paper - green ichor spewed forward, and the head rolled slightly to the side, the body still twitching. The other hound gave a savage roar, leaping forward to avenge its fallen brother, snarling viciously. Torgall barely managed to move in the nick of time, but the demon still clipped his arm, sending him spinning. He had just barely regained his balance when he felt something tighten around his ankle.

Looking down, he saw that the demon hound had used its tentacles to constrict his leg and was now slavering hungrily, evidently viewing him as a potential snack. Torgall shook his head at the demon's primitive tactics, but reasoned that these were little more than the dogs of the Burning Legion - even the wolves that the orcs had befriended had far greater cunning than these. He waited a moment for the demon to prowl forward, letting it believe he was still at a loss of what to do - and then buried his axe deep into the skull. The tentacles tightened convulsively around his leg before slackening, and the demon slumped forward. With a grunt, he kicked the body aside.

Torgus and the felguard were the only two who were still locked in vicious combat. The felguard was wielding a poleaxe very similar to that used by the one he and Torgall had fought earlier, and was just as deadly with it. Torgus, however, refused to be intimidated by his opponent. With a battle shout, he drew himself up to his considerable height and charged forward, briefly stunning the demon with his suddenness. The felguard caught itself just in time, parrying Torgus' first strike with a blindingly quick counter-strike. Torgus compensated for this by kicking outwards, though the move did little against the felguard's plated boots. Torgall saw the demon grin at the futile attack.

Now the felguard took to the offensive, swinging with such gusto that it was all Torgus could do to keep from being decapitated. Torgall made to assist him, but a groan from Lucethious stopped him. He was torn - attempt to help his friend in battle, or defend the spellcasters? It was very possible that there were more of those mana-sucking friends lurking just out of sight.

Before he could reach a decision, however, the felguard bellowed in pain, grasping wildly at his back. Torgall raised an eyebrow before seeing a cackling green form bounce away - Gaznok darted away from the flailing demon, whose eyes were now afire in fury. The felguard reached behind him where the could not see, and the sound of tearing flesh permeated the clearing before it withdrew a large hunting knife. The felguard hurled the jagged blade at the goblin, who leant back casually to avoid the dagger - once more startlingly calm in the face of abject danger, as the blade buried itself deep in the trunk of a thick tree.

The felguard now moved toward the goblin, but Torgus was not finished. Hefting his mace, he slammed it into the unprotected back of the demon with a sickening crunch. The felguard gave an even louder roar of pain this time, swinging out its poleaxe haphazardly in an attempt to strike the orc. Torgus, who was not prepared for such a wild strike, was saved by sheer luck - the flat of the blade, rather than its jagged edge, slammed into his side, knocking him back, but leaving him otherwise unharmed.

Gaznok was now dancing about the demon, still cackling madly, while the felguard lumbered after him, bellowing and attempting to rend in him two with the poleaxe. Again, Torgall felt the need to intervene, but could not bring himself to leave Lucethious and Yulgash, knowing that it would be just his luck to leave them momentarily, only to return to find them lifeless husks, sucked dry by another demonic hound. What could he do? What _should_ he do?

The answer came to him in the form of a jagged, deadly spear. The felguard stopped attempting to bisect the goblin, staring stupidly at the long piece of metal protruding out of his chest. Slowly, still unsure as to what had happened, it turned its head to see Rakaji grinning at it, another spear raised. The jungle troll gave a mischevious wink at the demon before tossing the spear with comparable force to the felguard throwing Gaznok's dagger - the spiked weapon ripped through the demon's skull, and while it did not pierce the helm, it left a sizeable dent. The felguard's arms waved for a few moments before pausing, as though it were listening to something the others could not hear, and then it fell forward onto both spears. This time Rakaji's weapon _did_ puncture the helmet, and the group watched in mild disgust as the impaled demon slowly slid down the spears, leaving a trail of green ichor along the shafts.

"Your timing is impeccable, my friend," Torgall rumbled appreciatively, feeling it was at last safe to move away from the spellcasters. Indeed, as he did so, Lucethious managed to get to his feet, though not without considerable effort.

"Ah, just doin' ma job, mon," replied Rakaji, still grinning. "I woulda bin here earliah, but I found a couple o' nasty beasties prowlin' about. Thought I best take care o' dem before dey find you first."

To accentuate this point, he reached into the undergrowth and pulled out one of the same demonic hounds the group had been fighting only moments earlier. This one had puncture marks scattered all about it - Torgall thought it had likely resembled a pincushion at one point. He smirked slightly.

"So," said the troll, clapping his hands together, "what be our next move, den? I be scoutin' da camp but be findin' nut'in' of much interest. Well-defended in some parts, but dem guards be restless. Easily distracted, methinks."

"Greshka came up with similar results," agreed Torgall, nodding and showing Rakaji the map he had drawn. He remained silent for a moment, allowing the troll to quickly scan the parchment. "All we need to do is find a way to remove a few of their sentries, then we can infiltrate the base and cause a ruckus. That should cause enough distraction for them to halt their offensive preparions, if only tempoarily."

As he spoke, a pair of green boulders - infernals, Yulgash had told them they were called, after sifting through a book on demons - rocketed through the sky towards the base.

"And we'll need to see if we can do something about those," he added in a growl. "With their offensive stalled, Thrall, Cairne and Proudmoore should be able to launch a joint counter-offensive. Between the humans and their allies, the orcs and Darkspear trolls, and the various tauren tribes, the Warsong clan and their demon allies will be _crushed_ for their affronts!"

His voice was still calm, but his eyes were bright with passion. He stared impressively around at them all, and they each nodded in turn, their faces set and ready. Torgall knew that with their differences aside, they would be able to overcome the evil that stood against them, ready to destroy all that they held dear. But they would not let it. Not as long as they still drew breath.

Weapons held high, they made for the Warsong camp.


	19. By Demons Be Driven, part 5

**Chapter 19: By Demons Be Driven, part 5**

"Two more grunts, watch yourselves!"

"They've brought a felguard with them this time, look out!"

"We're on it!"

Torgall and Torgus both charged the lumbering demon as Yulgash and Lucethious incinerated one of the grunts with a combined magical barrage. At the same time, Greshka and Rakaji peppered the second with spears and arrows - he fell to the ground, blood dribbling from numerous wounds. Torgall swung first, his feinting strike briefly confusing the demon, following up with a quick but accurate attack - the metal axehead bit into the demon's arm, causing it to roar in pain. The felguard spun around, and Torgall was reluctantly forced to release his axe, lest he be thrown into a tree. Snarling, the felguard grasped the handle and ripped the axe free, splattering green ichor everywhere, but that was not the worst of it - the demon was now twice as deadly.

Torgus took a hesitant step back, dodging one of the vicious swings by inches. The felguard's grip was like a titan, carrying both two-handed weapons with ease - Torgall wondered briefly why the demons didn't carry two weapons into battle by default, but the reason quickly became clear: while the felguard could easily swing the weapons with enough force to rend an orc in two, the swings were clumsy and imprecise, missing their marks by as many as several feet. Indeed, Torgus was now grinning, dancing about the infuriated demon with ease as it futilely attempted to sever his head from his shoulders.

Despite the brutish behaviour of the demon, it was no fool, and did not suffer this humiliation for long. With a frustrated roar, the felguard hurled the axe with tremendous force, sending it whirling through the air in a blinding mix of wood and steel. Torgus ducked, and the blade just barely nicked his shoulder - he bellowed an oath as the cut immediately started leaking blood. It was incredibly fine and thin, but evidently quite deep, as the blood came thick and fast. Clutching his shoulder, Torgus growled before re-adjusting his grip on his maul, snarling curses and oaths at the offending demon.

His weapon now re-acquirable, Torgall wasted no time in retrieving it. He lifted his axe, ready to rejoin the battle, but found that four more attackers had joined the fray - a grunt, a peon and two felhounds.

Torgall snorted - a peon fighting? Still, empowered by fel energy, the peons were now about as dangerous as an uncorrupted grunt - but they were still fairly stupid, lacking any real combat instincts. Sure enough, the peon was quickly dispatched by Rakaji and Greshka's combined attacks. The grunt proved a more challenging opponent. Greshka loosed a pair of arrows at him - one lodged itself fairly deeply in the grunt's arm, the other narrowly missing. The grunt sneered at the feeble attack before simply snapping the shaft and advancing for Greshka first.

Torgall intervened quickly, blocking the grunt's attack before it could remove one of her limbs. The fel orc snarled incoherently, and once more Torgall felt a rush of disgust and contempt. With the weapons locked, effectively disarming both combatants, the fel orc attempted to kick out at Torgall, trying to put him off-balance or, better yet, break his leg entirely, but the smaller orc was more wiley and agile. Torgall dodged several kicks before retaliating in kind, though he aimed for the shin. The strike was not enough to cause little more than superficial damage, but was strong enough to briefly distract the grunt. Utilizing this, Torgall brought his axe up and around, the blade cutting deeply into the grunt's midsection. With an enraged groan, the fel orc keeled over.

With those two immediate threats disposed, and Rakaji, Greshka and Gaznok protecting Lucethious and Yulgash from the felhounds, Torgall turned, ready to assist Torgus once more - and let out a furious bellow.

Torgus was lying on the ground, holding his mace up in defiance at the advancing felguard, though still clearly defeated. The wound Torgall had inflicted upon the demon had hampered its fighting capabilities sufficiently enough that Torgus was able to stand toe-to-toe, if only for a while; unfortunately, at some point during the course of the battle, the felguard had clearly gained the upper hand once more. Torgus was now battling for his very life, but it seemed that one mis-timed block would mean a grisly end. Torgall, however, was not going to let that happen.

Fear for his friend's life lent him great strength, and with a heroic leap, he bore down upon the demon, his cleaving strike managing to cut through the felguard's neck, helmet and all. The demon's shoulders shuddered, as though barely aware that the head sitting atop them had just been removed, before the whole body fell forward with a dull _thwump_, sending up a small cloud of dust.

Panting, Torgall outstretched a hand to his comrade, heaving Torgus to his feet. There appeared to be a brief reprieve in the fighting; the others had taken care of the felhounds sufficiently, and currently there did not appear to be any other Warsong orcs - nor, fortunately, felguard.

Abruptly, the ground trembled slightly. The group stumbled, looking about wildly. Earthquake? Infernal?

Again, the ground shuddered, more violently this time. They all grabbed on to whatever they could - rocks, ruined structures, withered husks of trees, dead from the fel corruption the warlocks and demons had spread.

And then, from over the top of a nearby ridge, a truly monstrous demon reared its ugly head.

It was red - not really an uncommon sight amongst those tainted by fel energy - with a large, horned head, its chin ending in a jutting spike. The brutish face seemed to belie a great cunning however, and unsurprisingly this demon was clad in ornate plate armour bearing a demonic crest of some sort. The arms were astoundingly thick, thicker than that of a fel orc or tauren, and in one hand the demon was carrying an enourmous jagged and spiked claymore that burned with bright green felfire. The massive legs were like tree trunks, ending in huge, heavy cloven hooves, and to complete the sight, a pair of leathery wings sprouted from the back.

As they watched in horror, the demon slammed one of its hooves against the ground, causing the earth to shake a third time. Still clutching the objects they had grappled, however, the group managed to stay upright. Over the heavy shaking, Torgall caught Yulgash say in a quaking voice to those nearby, "D-d-doomg-g-guard!"

The ground settled again, and the demon bared its fangs, then barked in a harsh, guttural voice that they could not understand. It gesticulated at them, and they briefly wondered if it was some form of challenge, but a moment later it raised its clawed hand skyward, performing a graceful flick. The group looked up apprehensively as an ominous rumbling sounded from above them, and watched, transfixed, as the red clouds swirled above them, seemingly becoming more dense until it was a burning mass of smog.

Abruptly, Yulgash screamed, "RUN!"

Without hesitation, the group split up, diving in opposite directions, and not a moment too soon - from the swirling cloud of fire above them, massive balls of flame erupted, careening to the ground in a rain of fire, scorching and searing the earth upon which they had been standing only moments ago. Torgall stared, wide eyed at the demon, which was grinning at them, clearly enjoying their abject terror.

Lucethious acted first, murmuring incantations and performing a complex twirl of the fingers, a solid block of ice encasing the huge demon. For a moment, they breathed a sigh of relief, until the ice block cracked and fractured, before exploding outwards, sending shards of ice flying. They ducked and ran for cover as the deadly projectiles threatened to impale them.

Yulgash made his move next, shouting an incantation in some strange tongue. Shadows erupted around the demon before coalescing into thick, smoky black chains, which wrapped themselves around the doomguard, attempting to ensare it. For a moment, the attack seemed successful, and the demon struggled for a few seconds against the magical bonds, before with a roar, it thrust its arms outwards, dissipating the magical trap.

Having recovered from the initial rain of fire, Torgall and Torgus now moved, attacking in tandem. Recalling Greshka's earlier misfortune when she attempted to block an attack from a demon's weapon with her blades, Torgall made a mental note not to attempt to block anything with his axe. The claymore, coupled with the demon's immense strength, made it apparent that the demon would be quite capable of tearing through metal and stone with ease, let alone an axe or maul.

Torgus reached the demon first, rolling forward to avoid a horizontal slash that would have sliced through his neck like butter, and spun up and around to try and strike the demon's thigh from behind. Unfortunately, there were some legplates there, though the demon's leathery hide was virtually enough to stop the mace, spikes and all. Torgus grunted in frustration, quickly putting distance between the demon and himself before their adversary could retaliate.

Torgall followed up with a feint, though the demon appeared far too cunning to fall for such a simple tactic. Sure enough, it lazily blocked his proper follow-up attack, the arm almost moving of its own accord and casually battering the axe aside. Torgall immediately dodged away before the demon cut him from shoulder to waist.

As he did so, several arrows clattered off the demon's breastplate, though a few more sunk into its flesh. The demon paused, looking at the arrows which looked like tiny needles on its immense form, before laughing throatily and wrenching them all out at once. He had barely done so when a spear lanced through his arm, and this time the demon finally appeared wounded. The doomguard gave a bellow of fury and rounded on Rakaji, the only one who had thus far managed to inflict any real damage. The troll grinned and Torgall privately shook his head - he was truly laughing in the face of death. Eyes blazing in fury, the doomguard pointed threateningly at the troll and barked in its demonic tongue once more. It seemed to have no effect - but then the attack was clear. As Rakaji turned to flee the demon, he seemed to move in slow motion, as though he had been crippled. Within moments the doomguard was bearing down upon him.

The three orcs tried to intervene, hacking, slashing and slamming with their axe, swords and mace, but the doomguard merely shrugged off the blows with ease. When they attempted to redouble their efforts, it gave a frustrated bellow and slammed the ground with one hoof, giving off an enormous warstomp. The orcs fell to the ground, stunned.

Rakaji reached slowly for a spear in one last stand against the huge figure advancing toward him, but it was clear that he would be dead before his fingers had even touched one of his weapons. Lucethious and Yulgash futilely cast spells at the demon, but the magic either had no effect, or the doomguard was merely ignoring whatever ill effects they incurred. The doomguard grinned, even as flames licked at its leathery skin and shards of ice attempted to slow its movements.

And as it raised its claymore, an ear-splitting noise rang around the small battlefield. All of them, the doomguard included, clutched at their ears, trying to block out the shrill noise. It was like an amazingly high-pitched ringing, the frequency so high that they felt as though their ears were going to explode. As the sound permeated throughout the clearing, Torgall watched in blank surprise as the ice melted from the doomguard, and the fires were extinguished, but at the same time Rakaji appeared to regain complete control of his movements.

Having disappeared halfway through the fight, they all watched as Gaznok emerged from the bushes, cluthing the strange metal device that he had been tinkering with before they had been attacked by the felhounds. The metal dish was spinning wildly now, and it was that which was emitting the ear-piercing noise, though Gaznok himself appeared completely unphased by the sound. On the contrary, he was grinning at them all, whether from the sight of his success or his own inflated ego, they could not tell. Regardless, he seemed supremely pleased at the result of his strange invention and the effects it was having.

The others swiftly realized the use of the contraption - with the crippling effects gone, Rakaji quickly scrambled away from the doomguard. The demon, having never encountered a goblin before, and nor likely their technology, was too distracted by the noise to even notice. Once the troll was safely out of harm's reach, Gaznok nodded and twiddled a few knobs, then pressed a button. The screeching died away.

The doomguard lowered its massive claws, snarling furiously at the racket. It was clear that it dearly wanted to spear Gaznok as far widespread as it could, but there were more immediate threats present. Namely, Lucethious and Yulgash were chanting as one, bright glowing balls of energy hovering around them both. The doomguard took a step towards them, but before it had moved two paces - which were still considerably large, given its size - they had unleashed their attack. The energy barrage hurtled towards the demon, battering it repeatedly. While it was preoccupied with these, Torgall ran up to Gaznok.

"What _is_ that?!" he demanded, indicating the strange device. As per normal, the insane goblin grinned.

"Supersonic magic-to-sound hypercombobulator," he said, the words making absolutely no sense to the orc, "or just magic disruptor for simpletons. It's powered off magic - I used the blood from those nasty dogs we fought earlier - and it generates soundwaves so intense that they interfere with magical resonance in the area, effecitvely nullifying any spells being cast or in transit. The soundwaves are in tune with the magical energies, and they cancel each other out. It only works on active magic, however - spellcasters and their magic stores and unaffected by the soundwaves, because their magic is inert, and so the soundwaves have no effect."

Torgall understood very little of this beyond the device's ability to cancel the use of magic. That explained why the flames and ice attacks faded from the doomguard, and why Rakaji suddenly regained control of his movements.

"Can you use it again?" he asked - such a weapon could prove immensely useful. The goblin shook his head, his huge ears flapping.

"Unfortuantely, no," he said regretfully, "it needs more magical energy - demon's blood works wonders - before it-"

"Look out!"

They both turned at Lucethious' cry before dodging aside. The doomguard, having swatted aside all of the energy spheres that had been harrassing it, was now charging for Gaznok, intent on destroying the magic disruptor. The goblin, however, was a very small target, and a slippery one at that; the demon's attempts at the goblin's life appeared futile.

And then a second noise interrupted the battle, though very different from the magic disruptor's shrill shrieking. It was a deep, booming horn, one that Torgall recognized. He grinned at the sound, and the doomguard paused, if only for a moment.

Abruptly, tendrils rose from the ground, thick, thorny vines, whipping around the doomguard's legs. Despite the land's agonized state, they seemed eager to mete out revenge against those who had defiled them. The doomguard roared in fury, hacking at the vines, but there were too many.

Next, an blinding bolt of lightning arced through the air, striking the demon squarely in the chest. It gave a second roar, this one of pain, its entire form illuminated by the dazzling display. A moment later, however, it slammed its fists together before throwing them outwards, shouting something in demonic; the lightning disippated, the roots receded. It had dispelled the magic.

Such an act apparently taxed it visibly, however, for the doomguard, while still snarling and bellowing, was also panting slightly. Its eyes were ablaze in demonic fury, and resting on the two new arrivals that had managed to harm it. Their fur blowing slightly in the wind, the power of nature flowing about them, Fenris and Kunasha Direhoof made for an impressive sight; Fenris' horn was strapped to his belt, and he carried his totem aloft, prepared for battle.

"The assault has begun!" he cried impressively in a booming voice, "The tribes march to your hold, vile demon! The orcs and their allies prepare themselves, as do the humans and theirs! Let the wrath of the Earthmother consume you!"

He slammed his totem against the ground, and small fissures splintered outwards. Then he struck.

A blast of earth energy shocked the demon, causing it to stumble back a step. The doomguard, however, was not going to simply stand by and take it. With a challenging roar, it lunged for the shaman, claymore raised to cut him from head to hoof. As with the earlier battle, Fenris empowered his weapon with the strength of earth, blocking the demonic weapon, though not without effort - the doomguard was larger than he. As such, his mate stepped in, calling down astral energy to strike the demon, even in the light of day - a burning column of starfire struck the demon, blinding it momentarily and leaving it slightly dazed. It shook its head, snarling and torn between which target to attack first.

With confusion and exhaustion beginning to take its toll, the group all struck at once. Lucethious and Yulgash cast repeatedly, a barrage of frost and flame relentlessly assaulting the demon. Torgall and Torgus aimed for the exposed parts, the axe biting into the leathery hide, the mace's spikes causing the legs to buckle. Greshka rained down suppressive fire to help confuse the demon, and Rakaji hurled his spears with unerring accuracy. Fenris stood hoof-to-hoof with the doomguard, blocking and parrying the massive claymore, counter-striking where he could, while Kunasha supported him with her nature magic. The only combatant not battling was Gaznok, who was going from dead demon to dead demon, extracting the blood and pouring it into his invention.

At last, after what seemed like a hundred strikes, the doomguard succumbed to their combined assault. It was tougher than an infernal, and could not be felled as easily by removing a single part, and it was only when Torgall and Torgus each brought their weapons crashing down onto its skull in tandem that it finally collapsed forward, unmoving. Panting, Torgall approached Fenris.

"I take the assault has begun, then?" he asked, echoing the tauren's previous words with a grin. Even as he looked about, he could hear the sounds of battle from just out of sight. Fenris nodded sagely.

"We have come to purge these aberrations from our lands!" he boomed, small bolts of lightning crackling about him in his fervor. Torgall had yet to see him brimming with such energy. Kunasha, too, seemed to veritably glow with a pale, shimmering hue. "Let battle be joined!"

He led them away from the huge demon corpse to a nearby ridge, where they saw the majority of the battle was taking place. Warsong grunts and raiders, even peons, were charging forward with maces, clubs, swords, claymores, battleaxes, poleaxes and any other number of brutal looking weapons. The orcs were crazed and frenzied, lusting for battle and blood. Joining them were hordes of demons, from simple felguards and felhounds to the occasionally hulking form of a doomguard or infernal. The attacking forces did not relent, however - now that they were on the offensive, the humans, orcs and their allies were attacking with an almost possessed fervor, swinging their weapons to battle chants while spells rained down upon the opposition.

At the head of this was Thrall, dismounting his wolf, and even as all battled, they could hear him quite clearly as he approached Hellscream, a note of urgency in his voice.

"Grom!" he shouted over the din, "You've got to come with me!"

The chieftain regarded him through his burning eyes, Gorehowl whistling slightly as he swung the axe to and fro.

"And where would you lead me, boy?" he growled. "Destiny is at hand! Lord Mannoroth is our master now!"

Thrall looked confused, compounded by frustration, mingled with dismay. "Who? You're not talking sense!"

Hellscream shook his head, half-impatiently, half-pityingly, before saying with a hint of sadness, "Ah, Thrall. You always believed that the demons corrupted our race, but that's only half true." He looked up, his eyes burning brighter than ever. "We gave ourselves up _willingly_ on Draenor! The other chieftains and I... we drank Mannoroth's blood, Thrall. We _brought_ this curse upon ourselves!"

Greshka was mouthing wordlessly in horror; Torgus was snarling curses at the words. Torgall was in shock - the orcs _themselves_ had done this, knowing what it would do?! No wonder his father had been so vehement against it, as had the Frostwolves... somehow, they had known...

Apparently, Thrall was of a similar mind. "You did this... to our people... KNOWINGLY?!" he spluttered incoherently, his voice obscured by rage. He let out a scream of fury, charging forward. Hellscream grinned, and struck with such blinding speed the warchief was briefly taken by surprise. Doomhammer clashed with Gorehowl, sending a shockwave of energy outwards. The combined Alliance-Horde offensive paused, as did the demons and Warsong clan, watching in awe as the two powerful orcs traded blows.

Thrall swung the legendary hammer with amazing force, rage and fury lending him great strength, as did the elements. It was these that were able to save him from the Warsong chieftain's attacks. The wily old chieftain possessed staggering skill, striking with the force of a cannon, the speed of deadly arrow. Thrall, in turn, swung with the impact of a tidal wave crashing down, and the swiftness of the winds. The very earth, as befouled and desecrated as it was by the demonic corruption, came to his aid, splintering into small fissures whenever he slammed the ground with one of his plated boots, the spirit of earth attempting to unbalance the Warsong chieftain.

Hellscream was not to be undone so easily - the undefeated chieftain was a renowned warrior for a reason. He lashed out at the younger orc with unbridled wrath, Gorehowl shrieking as the air whipped through the rings and holes carved into the axehead. On one occasion, Thrall had dodged to the side, only to have the deadly axe literally cleave _through_ the rock he had been standing in front of. Hellscream did not seem bothered by his failed attempts on Thrall's life - he merely re-adusted his position before striking out once more. Nonetheless, with one strengthend by the elements, and the other empowered by demonic energy, the two were well-matched.

As the two battles raged on, Torgall felt his shock abate, to be replaced by white hot fury. He had known that the orcs had been corrupted, and further learnt that it was demonic corruption, but Greshka and Torgus had assured him that Gul'dan and the demons had orchestrated the whole dark chapter of his people's history. But no - it seemed that the chieftains, too, were willing to partake in the dark bargain, Hellscream at the head. The shame his people had wrought was as bad as he had dreaded, but never truly believed.

A flash of light accompanied by a strange whooshing sound - much like something being sucked in by a vacuum - interrupted his thoughts. Thrall had landed a powerful blow on Hellscream, striking the older orc in the stomach with Doomhammer. While the chieftain doubled over, winded, Thrall did not attempt to land a killing blow, but instead procured a strange gemstone from his belt. In the blink of an eye, he had struck Hellscream across the head with the stone. Torgall raised an eyebrow, wondering what sort of attack that was supposed to be, only to gape in blank surprise as Hellscream was _absorbed_ into the gem. Satisifed, though still glowering with rage, Thrall pocketed the gem.

"Fight on, brothers!" he cried, "And fight on, our allies! Drive these demons back, that we may save our race!"

The Horde cheered and waved their weapons, and even the Alliance sent up battle cries. The combined attackers seemed to gain second wind, assaulting the demons and Warsong orcs with even greater fervor than before. Thrall re-mounted his wolf, though rather than joining the battle, he rode back in the direction of the base. Having finished watching this scene play out, the group rose as one, eager to join the battle. Even as Torgall sunk his axe into a demon, still furious at Hellscream's revelation, he wondered - where were they to go from here? Even despite this alliance between the demons and the Warsong orcs, he still felt a deeper darkness lurking beyond, waiting for the right moment to strike... and as he dodged an attack, lashing out at the offender, he glanced almost nervously at the sky, with the ominous feeling that their true battle had only just begun...


	20. The Scourge

**Chapter 20: The Scourge**

The forests of Ashenvale were quiet, though not the small allied base nestled within its depths. Orcs and humans alike worked as one, forging a new frontier together, seeking out any remaining demons from the fateful battle against the Warsong orcs, and further attempting to assess their surroundings. It had almost been a week since the battle, and hardly longer since the death of Hellscream.

Having been captured by a Soul Gem provided by Jaina Proudmoore, Thrall delivered the corrupt chieftain to a circle of power within the Alliance-Horde base. There, his spirit had been purged and cleansed of demonic corruption by a collection of priests, magi and shaman. His mind restored, Hellscream and Thrall together went to end the threat posed to the orcs once and for all - the pit lord Mannoroth, lieutenant of the Burning Legion and perpetrator of the orc's Blood Curse.

Both had departed. Only one had returned.

That eve, Thrall had told the hushed, shocked Horde of how the two cautiously tread throughout a shadowy, corrupt canyon. With each step, green magma had bubbled out of cracks in the ground, and noxious fumes had billowed through the pass. Both orcs had kept their eyes peeled, watching for even the slightest movement. Despite all their precautions, however, Mannoroth found them first.

He described the pit lord as nothing short of monstrous. Towering as tall as several orcs, almost twenty feet high, the size alone made for an incredibly imposing sight. But that was not the least of it. Shaped like a grotesque green lizard, Mannoroth the Destructor, like others of his race, had leathery, scaly skin with a pair of huge wings, not unlike those of a doomguard. His back was riddled with deadly bony protrusions which could easily impale an orc, armour and all, and running down the back was a veritable wall of flames. The torso in particular repulsed them - thick, heavy arms carried a mighty double-bladed polearm, and tusks jutted from the demon's jaw. His eyes literally burned with felfire, and with each syllable he expulsed sulfurous smoke.

He made for a truly terrifying sight, but Thrall and Hellscream refused to be cowed. They needed to end it then and there.

Thrall had struck first. He told them how he summoned the aid of the elements, channeling it into Doomhammer, before hurling the legendary weapon at the pit lord with all his considerable might. And yet, despite the strength of the blow, the demon was virtually unphased with little more than superficial damage to his wing. Mannoroth had commended Thrall's attempt, though branded it futile, before charging the warchief and slamming his weapon into the ground. The resulting shockwave knocked both orcs aside, briefly felling Hellscream and sending Thrall flying into a wall of solid rock. The warchief had collapsed, barely concious.

Dimly, he had watched as Hellscream struggled to rise while Mannoroth had taunted him, reminding him of the power of the Blood Curse and that the orcs would forever be enslaved to the Burning Legion. Hellscream almost gave in once more to the Curse - but briefly met eyes with his warchief, and realized he could no longer allow his people to be slaves to the demons. Summoning his strength, Hellscream gave a roar of fury, sprinting towards the pit lord. Mannoroth lazily brought up the polearm, thinking it ease to merely block the strike - and paid the price for it.

Thrall watched in awe and pride as the chieftain he considered a brother literally_ cleaved_ the weapon in two, slicing through the pit lord's breastplate and burying Gorehowl deep within the demon. Mannoroth gave a roar of pain, his demonic hellfire exploding forth from the opening in a torrent of flames. Unable to rise, let alone help Hellscream, Thrall's awe turned to horror as his friend stood, alone, before the wrath of the pit lord, the felfire torrenting upon him. The flames grew brighter and brighter, eventually blinding both orcs.

At last, it had subsided. Something heavy thudded on stone, and Thrall had cautiously opened his eyes to see Hellscream had fallen. Painfully, labouriously, he had risen, dragging himself over to his dying friend. Hellscream had looked at him, the life fading quickly from his eyes. But as he spoke, relief at last of having freed himself from the demonic fire that had burned in his veins, the very hellfire itself burnt out from his eyes. With that, he breathed a restful sigh, giving himself to the ancestors to speed him to the spirit world.

But, as Thrall told them all, he had not merely freed himself - he had freed them all.

They had felt it earlier. Before Thrall's return, as they were recovering from the battle, Greshka and Torgus had both suddenly doubled over, shock in their eyes. Torgall had no idea what to do - they looked as though they had been paralyzed. He made to help them, but abruptly they looked up, and something in their demeanor's had changed; they suddenly seemed relaxed, focused, as though they had just woken from a deep sleep... no, a dark nightmare. Torgall had anxiously asked if they were okay, but they had simply smiled, and he knew.

After Thrall's tale, the orcs had let out a collective roar of sorrow, honouring the fallen chieftain, knowing what his sacrifice had meant. Grommash Hellscream, both an embodiment and opposer to the demonic control that had plagued the orcs, died a heroes' death for his people, freeing them from the shackles that had tainted their spirits for years without end. Thrall himself had allowed the tears to run freely down his face, though he maintained his composure in honour of his friend. Hellscream's sacrifice meant a new age for the orcs.

And so now, the orcs were scouring the forests with their human allies to be certain that the demonic threat had been truly eliminated. With their spirits freed, it had not taken long for them to redouble their efforts - it was as though a veil had been lifted from their eyes, and they could truly see the world for what it was. They now worked harder than ever to secure their place in that world.

"Put your backs into it!" shouted Duke Lionheart, the paladin assigned to oversee the construction of this new outpost, "Jaina and the orc warchief expect this base to be built swiftly!"

Torgall scowled at the brusqueness that the paladin had used while referring to Thrall, but made no comment, instead continuing to fell a tree alongside Torgus, with Greshka once more pretending to be overseeing their efforts. As he returned to his work, he noticed a human footman approach the paladin.

"Bah!" he heard the footman snap, "We shouldn't even _be_ here! _Or_ siding with the orcs," he added with a sneer.

With that, Torgus immediately put down his axe without a word and stomped over to the footman.

"Torgus," Torgall said warningly in a low voice. The older orc ignored him.

"We're here to hunt the remaining demons, _human_," he growled, "you're lucky our goals are the same!"

The footman looked as though he could have quite happily struck Torgus - and the orc felt likewise in return, his fingers twitching as though itching to reach for the maul slung around his back. However, Duke Lionheart swiftly intervened.

"All right, you men!" he barked, "Mind your business! Back to work!"

Torgus gave the human one last glare before turning away, cracking his knuckles threateningly. The footman made to follow him, apparently wishing to continue the confrontation, but Duke Lionheart stepped between them, narrowing his eyes. The footman hesitated, before returning to help the peasants.

"Lousy human," Torgus growled, picking up the axe once more and swinging it so viciously that the shaft almost snapped upon impact, "you'd think after our allied victory, they'd respect our presence and be a bit amicable, but no, they just can't let old hatreds die..."

"Not all humans think alike, my friend," replied Torgall quietly. "Look at Yulgash, and even Lucethious. High elves hate our kind with a passion. It's just like how not all orcs think alike." He paused, thinking of Setremedes. "The humans will... come to their senses."

Torgus merely grumbled but said nothing, choosing to return to their work. While the new outpost was progressing well, they were still in need of further resources. Peons and peasants both worked tirelessly to extract gold from a nearby mine, while grunts helped in the deforestation to provide the necessary lumber. Duke Lionheart oversaw all, fair but firm, making sure everyone was working to their fullest, and breaking up any of the, unfortunately frequent, quarrels.

This time, it was only Torgall, Torgus, Greshka and Rakaji together. The others had all remained with the bulk of the Horde-Alliance forces. Fenris and Kunasha, along with the other chieftains and tribal leaders, were consulting with Cairne Bloodhoof about the future of the tauren race. Yulgash and Lucethious, both magisters, had been recalled for magical duties by Jaina Proudmoore. And Gaznok simply wished to tinker - somewhere out of the way, where he was in no immediate danger save from his own inventions.

A flapping of wings caught Torgall's attention, if only briefly. He glanced up disinterestedly, seeing only an owl... then did a quick double-take when he realized the owl was _green_. His eyes widened and he stared at it in surprise as it fluttered over the treetops and out of sight. He shook his head - surely in a land veritably soaked in nature magic, green birds couldn't be uncommon.

Nonetheless, seeing the creature gave him a slight feeling of unease. Something about the owl felt... unnatural. Magical. Out of place with its environment.

He shook his head a second time, dismissing the idea as paranoid - oblivious, as were all others present, to the two figures above whom the owl returned to.

* * *

They were surrounded.

It was like being in the Warsong lumber camp all over again - except this time, they had the humans and their allies assisting them. Nonetheless, the night elves were everywhere, striking left, right and centre. They would emerge from the shadows, striking with their wicked tri-blades or raining a volley of arrows before simply melting back into the darkness; or their panther riders would burst out from the undergrowth, slamming a startled warrior to the ground while the rider cast her glaives into the fray, else rained arrows down upon the defenders. This time, however, they seemed to have a leader. She rode astride a panther as well, but wielded a large, heavy longbow and wore silvery plated armour. She glowed with a pale white hue, almost radiating light, and every now and then she would call down a barrage of luminescent energy spheres like those cast by Kunasha.

The humans, dwarves, elves, orcs and trolls attempted to hold back the onslaught, but only Torgall, Torgus and Greshka had any real experience with battling these warrior-women. The only other who seemed confident in his ability to fight here was Duke Lionheart, who was seemingly blazing with the power of the Holy Light, swinging his hammer with zeal. He had called upon a devotion aura to empower his allies, and all who stood near were protected from physical assault - more than once, a night elf made to strike an orc or human, only to find her attack simply bounce off their armour.

Duke Lionheart also did his best to make sure none were grievously wounded, whatever their race. Calling upon the Holy Light, he would cast down a beam of healing energy onto a wounded soldier, whereupon their wounds would simply melt away, renewing their vigour. The paladin fought with all the determination that befit his kind - as one night elf attempted to strike him down, he lightly deflected her arm with his gauntleted hand, and the attack merely glanced off his plated armour. He then brought his hammer up and around, bringing it crushing down on the warrior's skull.

One of the panther riders attempted to assault him next. Her glaive sliced through the air, spinning wildly and clearly about to behead the human. As it neared, Lionheart called upon the Holy Light's protection, and a divine shield sprung into life about him - the glaive ricocheted off the protective bubble, leaving no harm whatsoever. Lionheart lifted the hammer for an overhead swing, catching the night elf in the midriff and knocking her clean off her mount. A footman quickly dispatched her before she could rise.

Torgall had learnt from their previous encounters with the night elves that they were quick, seasoned and cunning warriors, and like the doomguard, would not suffer deceit and tricks easily. He therefore abandoned any considerations of feinting strikes and opted to go for a more direct approach. One of the warriors charged him, her eyes narrowed in fury, her tri-blade raised threateningly. Torgall waited until she was almost upon him, then swung the axe up with as much force as he could muster. The attack worked - one of the blades splintered off her weapon like glass, leaving only a jagged stump of metal behind. The night elf gave a scream of rage before renewing her attack.

However, Torgall's hopeful prediction proved correct - with the shift in the weapon's weight, and consequently balance, the night elf's attacks were more unwieldy and had a higher chance of missing. This allowed Torgall to act more aggressively without fear of greater injury. Indeed, while he did suffer a painful gash to his forearm, the wound was not particularly deep - he pushed past the pain and slashed the axe upwards, and flinched to the side slightly as he was greeted with a spray of purplish blood, the warrior's throat slit. Able fighters though they might be, Torgall still felt slightly uneasy about battling women.

No such qualms from his allies, however. Torgus, having unslung his spiked maul, gave a bellow of fury and waded into the enemy, swinging like a berserker. Several of the warriors even shirked back from him, so wild were his swings. Torgall frowned - it seemed an almost primal rage, like when the orcs were corrupted by the bloodlust, but reminded himself that his race were naturally-born warriors. Torgus was not fuelled by demonic corruption, but his own warrior spirit. The aged orc swung over and over, crushing armour and sending elves flying. At one point one of the panther riders bore down upon him, seeking to use her mount as a weapon, but with a mighty roar, Torgus slammed the mace into the beast with such force that a resounding crack echoed throughout the base - the huge feline slumped over, dead before it even hit the ground. Torgall and several other fighters, night elves included, gaped at the sight, but Torgus, still caught up within his berserker rage, did not slow.

The battle seemed to be going well, but the night elves kept coming. They would defeat the attackers, only to have another wave emerge, firing arrows and swinging their blades - and so it went on. At one point they had driven them back, and had started to recover, but before long the elves had returned on their winged steeds, raining arrows down with impunity. Headhunters, archers and riflemen did their best to return fire, but the riders were far more agile than the land-based defenders. It took a combined effort of flak-fire to scatter the winged attackers, at which point the raiders hurled their heavy roped nets into the air. The grunts in particular were furious with this mockery, and as such descended upon the riders with fierce abandon, hacking their mounts to pieces before turning on the night elves themselves. It was a bloody battle for both sides.

Again, they seemed to be pushed back, but Torgall knew grimly that they were waiting just beyond to regroup and attack once more. They were clearly deep within the night elves' territory now, though he had yet to understand why they were so aggressive. True, Fenris had warned them that they considered themselves guardians of the land or somesuch, but the warrior women hadn't even attempted a diplomatic approach. He wondered if maybe this was the 'sacred forest' Meilosh had mentioned to them. Dimly, he considered the irony of orcs taking umbrage to others not approaching diplomatically, but now was not the time to dwell on such trivialities. The fact of the matter was that the defenders were slowly being worn down, and the night elves simply did not relent.

"Here," said Greshka abruptly, tossing him a rough bandage. "Patch yourself up. You're going to need all the strength you can get to fend off these... women."

"What of our current situation?" he asked, wrapping the cloth tightly around his wound with a grateful nod. Greshka scowled.

"I discussed with Duke Lionheart; he says he sent out a pair of wolfriders and a pair of knights as messengers to both Thrall and Proudmoore. However, it will take them some time to reach the base, and then of course they have to return. It will be several hours before we can hope for reinforcements."

Torgall nodded absently - things definately did not look good. He wondered that if they perhaps slew the leader, the one with the silvery plate armour who kept casting down burning meteorites onto the base, the night elves may retreat. However, he thought it unlikely. At one point, a pair of grunts and a knight had tried just that. As they had neared, she'd fired a pair of arrows at one grunt with disturbing accuracy - one pierced directly between the eyes, the other straight in the heart. The grunt had fallen forward, dead without even realizing, his face still twisted into a snarl that had been emitting a battle cry.

As the other two had drawn closer, she had raised her hand and seemingly conjured a glowing white blade out of thin air. She had turned on the knight first, swinging the sword and cutting through the armour like paper. The knight had screamed as the weapon went into and through him, searing his flesh and dropping him off his mount. The blade tore free of its own accord. The remaining grunt, seeing his two comrades slain, gave a bellow of fury, charging the night elf leader directly. She had merely narrowed her eyes, wrinkling her nose in disdain and disgust, before simply lopping off the grunt's head with one clean strike, the searing blade immediately cauterizing the wound.

Since then, most combatants had learnt to stay away from her, for she was a fierce fighter with powerful equipment, and her martial prowess was evident. She had only chosen to retreat when the odds had begun to turn. A cunning and formidable warrior, she was no fool, and evidently her leadership and battle experience were highly valued, as the night elves encouraged her retreat if the battle took a turn for the worse.

With the constant, repeated and overall frequent attacks, it was becoming steadily obvious that they would not be able to hold out much longer. Torgall wondered what would happen then - would they perhaps take prisoners? Or maybe they would have them fight to the death, slay every last one standing... who knew.

A rough blare sounded, a primitive battle horn. Torgall bared his teeth - another attack already, and they had barely just caught their breath! Growling, he straightened, ready to face the enemy head-on. Sure enough, the night elves sprung from the foliage, screaming their battle cries and cutting down the first line of defenders; the defenders were all beleaguered, worn from the constant battles, unable to be relieved by reinforcements. As usual, their leader stood in the thick of it, firing her arrows with deadly accuracy, dropping them one by one. Rakaji and his fellow headhunters tried to return fire, hurling their spears as best as they could, but there were simply too many.

The horn blared a second time, and _furbolgs_ leapt from the bushes. Torgall's heart briefly lifted, thinking the Timbermaw had come to their aid, but no; the furbolgs immediately set upon footman and grunt alike, savaging them with their claws. He recalled Meilosh's words, saying that the furbolgs were close allies of the 'moon children'. But surely Meilosh would not betray them so? He edged closer to one of the bear-men, looking for any familiar signs - he could discern none. He dearly hoped that it was simply another tribe.

Resigned to their battle, the defenders gave it their all, but as the battle progressed, the situation only became worse and worse. The final blow came when the elf leader dismounted her panther, identifying Duke Lionheart as the overseer and commander of the combined Horde-Alliance outpost, and slew him in single combat. The paladin was facing off against three of the elven warriors at once, and had just barely beat them back when she chose to attack. For a brief period, they seemed fairly evenly-matched - Lionheart's mace, empowered by the Light, was not simply destroyed by his opponent's weapon, nor could that weapon cleave through his armour like it did to all others; the protection granted to him by the Holy Light guarded him.

However, Lionheart was weary with the constant battling, and the night elf leader appeared to be far more experienced than even he. She fought with the savagery and precision of one who had spent a great deal of, if not her _entire_ life, battling. Torgall remembered how long high elves tended to live, and reasoned that these elf women were likely of a similar vogue, and therefore would have plenty of time to refine their battle skill. Thus, before long, the night elf had managed to plunge her blade with enough force to pierce the divine aura surrounding the paladin, into his armour and body. Duke Lionheart slumped, his swing suddenly going limp, his body sagging, and the night elf leader kicked his corpse off her blade. Torgall snarled - the paladin was a righteous man, had she had slain him in cold blood! It could hardly have been considered an honourable duel, given Lionheart's disadvantage.

The other defenders had seen the event as well, and it seemed to sap what little remained of their resolve. Conversely, the night elf-furbolg attackers seemed to double their fervor at the sight, renewing their attacks. The dispirited and exhausted defenders fell like wheat.

And then, several things happened at once.

First, there was an ominous rumble. The earth shook, and all present instinctively glanced skyward. Torgall, Torgus, Greshka and Rakaji immediately feared an infernal strike, and their fears seemed confirmed as they saw the periwinkle-blue sky suddenly turn red, just as with the battle against the Warsong orcs.

Next, flames erupted from the skies, not unlike in the battle with the doomguard. The burning projectiles screamed through the air, careening into buildings and setting them aflame. Before long, most of the structures had been reduced to rubble and smouldering ashes.

And lastly, just as the defenders and attackers began to recover from this sudden spectacle, there was a bright flash of light. Torgall swore as a trio of doomguard, complete with a pack of felhounds and a number of felguard were teleported into the battlefield. At their head was another demon, similar in appearance to the doomguard, but smaller and with pale skin instead. In addition, his horns were long and curved instead of short and pointed, and while he wore similar plated armour, it was more subdued, and he carried no weapon - instead, he had long, scythe-like claws. His appearance clearly marked him as a spellcaster.

Even as the Horde, Alliance, night elves and furbolgs registered these new arrivals, a nearby cluster of trees were suddenly torn down, and from them emerged an even more unwelcome sight - creatures from a nightmare. No, creatures was not a proper term, Torgall realized, for they were not at all alive. Rather, they were shambling, hulking corpses, crawling along on all fours, putrid ichor drooling from their mouths as they slavered, clearly hungering for the taste of flesh. The first wave of these monsters leapt forth, pinning down human, orc and elf alike. They needed no weapons - these monstrosities possessed inhuman strength and merely tore at armour to get at the flesh underneath.

"It's the undead! Defend yourselves!" one soldier cried.

"They must have followed us from Lordaeron!" shouted another. Even as they managed to cut down the first line of shambling corpses, another fivefold emerged, just as hungering as the first. Behind them were massive, lumbering golem-like creatures carrying bloodied cleavers and hooks, stitches, shards of metal and pieces of bone protruding from their grotesque bodies. One huge swipe from one of these abominations nearly cleaved a footman in two. In addition, strange spider-like creatures attacked alongside them, unleashing waves of flesh-eating scarabs at the horrified defenders, else ensaring them in thick, sticky webs so they could not defend themselves.

If they were not in trouble before, they most definately were now.

Torgall, Torgus, Greshka and Rakaji watched in dismay as they remaining defenders were systematically destroyed, being torn apart by the horrific undead. With the demons assisting them, the battle was swiftly progressing towards a grisly end.

"There is nothing left for us here!" Torgall shouted over the screams of the dying as the undead clawed them apart, "We must depart immediately!"

He got no argument from his companions - this was not a battle so much as a slaughter. Noting the night elves melting back into the trees' shadows, the few surivors did likewise, fleeing into the forest, the shrieks of agony and terror still ringing in their ears.


	21. Sapph

**Chapter 21: Sapph**

They had been walking for hours, relentlessly pursued by the nightmarish undead. The shambling, rotting corpses that hungered for their flesh were out of earshot, and certainly out of viewing distance, given the thick forest around them, but the stench followed them constantly, harrassing their noses just as much as the constant movement slowly wore at their bodies.

Before long after having departed the ill-fated outpost, a number of other haggard survivors had joined up with them. Within an hour, their group had swollen to include a handful of grunts and footmen, along with a pair of riflemen. The new arrivals were none the better for wear than they were - all bore cuts, bruises and other signs that showed that they, too, had suffered at the rotting hands of the undead.

Alternatingly, every half hour or so, Greshka or Rakaji would double back to see what the undead's progress was, but every time they would return shaking their heads and looking grim. The walking dead allowed them no respite, harrassing them constantly by remaining just within pursual distance, so they knew that they were always just out of reach of a much needed rest.

During the harrowing journey, the humans and dwarves explained to them the origins of the undead - or as best as they knew, at least. Apparently, the undead - or Scourge, as they had beend dubbed - had quite literally swept through Lordaeron like a wildfire. It had subtle beginnings; at first, the populace began mysteriously falling ill. It had transpired that a plague was being spread by a dark cult, the Cult of the Damned, a plague which slowly deteriorated the health of the infected, until they simply succumbed - but that was not the worst of it. Before long, those unfortunate victims rose as mindless undead, seeking only the flesh of the living.

Lordaeron and its sister nations had been in turmoil. The plague was spread amidst the nation's grain supplies, and before long the Scourge had become a prominent threat. Eventually, prince Arthas himself, along with his mentor, Uther the Lightbringer, and former lover, Magister Jaina Proudmoore, took it upon themselves to hunt down the cause of this mysterious plague.

Despite their best efforts, and even slaying Kel'Thuzad, a high-ranking member of the Cult of the Damned, they could do little to stop the Scourge's advance. It became clear that Arthas' frustration at the ever-growning threat was eating into his reason and humanity. The final straw came when, in an effort to stop Mal'Ganis, a dreadlord - the same kind of pale demon that had foreseen the destruction of their base - from bolstering the Scourge's forces, Arthas ordered the purge of Stratholme, to prevent the infected civilians from rising as his mindless slaves.

It was with that atrocious act that Jaina Proudmoore chose to lead what Alliance forces she could across the sea, at the behest of a mysterious Prophet - the very same Prophet that requested Thrall lead his Horde westward. Likewise, the same Prophet who demanded they put aside their differences, and work together to repel the incoming invasion. No sooner had they done as he commanded, were they called to combat the Warsong-demon forces. Were they not working as one, the Alliance and Horde would both have fallen to the combined attackers.

The last the Alliance expedition had heard of Arthas, he had led his own forces north, to combat the Scourge directly. When saying this, the footman spoke in a despondent voice that quite clearly said that his hopes were not high in the slightest - indeed, he mumbled absently after finishing the sorrowful tale that he wouldn't be at all surprised if Lordaeron was now crawling with undead.

And now they had followed them to this foreign land. Try as they might, they simply could not escape their relentless pursuers. Eventually, they could not carry themselves any further - their legs gave out, and they collapsed, defeated, into a small glade. It was no use - the Scourge would eventually be upon them, and they would have no choice but to fight.

As they lay there, panting, Torgall noticed something different about the forest. It was no longer dark and quiet like the forboding Ashenvale - it was bright and lively. Songbirds that had not fled the oncoming undead threat fluttered about and chirruped to one another happily, and the canopy was not as dense, allowing in a bright stream of sunlight. Nearby, a small creek bubbled soothingly. Torgall couldn't help but sigh - if he were to die here, it would at least be in a peaceful resting place.

A rustling brought them to their senses, and they rose, weapons at the ready, but it was merely Greshka. When she looked at them, however, she gave them a wan smile.

"They've stopped," she said simply, and they all cried out in relief, collapsing to the forest floor and able to relax in earnest. All of a sudden the sunlight seemed brighter, the birdsong more cheerful, the water more welcoming.

"However, they have begun to construct a base," she continued in slightly more grim tones. "Shortly after the Scourge stopped marching, a number of robed, hooded figures arrived and began casting strange spells - they literally summoned entire _buildings _into existence."

"Acolytes," said one of the footmen promptly, "the backbone of the Scourge. They maintain all the structures and see to it the plague is spread."

Greshka nodded and continued, "In addition, some other men arrived. Thin, frail, with grey beards, and skull staves and helmets-"

"Necromancers," growled one of the dwarves, "evil, sadistic bastards, they are. They corrupt the very earth on which they tread, decaying, twisting, _killing_ the land around them. They befoul everythin' they touch, just like all the Scourge do."

Torgus grimaced at those words, evidently not wishing to believe them, and Rakaji stared, wide-eyed at Greshka, his fear at her confirmation apparent. To their dismay, she nodded a second time.

"Truer words not spoken," she said grimly, "within minutes, the plants withered and died, the earth became cracked and decayed, the very life seeped from the land. The most worrying thing is, this decay spread at an alarming rate-"

"-the Blight," interrupted another footman. "It is the raw form of the plague, it is what destroys the land and those who live off it. It is the effect the plague has on the earth, rather than living beings."

Torgall slumped, digesting this depressing new information. This undead invasion seemed hugely ominous - their ranks swelled with each fallen warrior, and they destroyed whatever they touched. Such a threat felt like the previous battles against the night elves, Warsong clan, centaur and everything else they had fought in this foreign land paled in comparison to what they now faced.

They tried to relax as best they could, but the dark tidings of the Scourge had unnerved them all greatly. Granted, the humans and dwarves were already aware of the havoc they could wreak, but clearly did not expect to be followed by them across the sea. Every now and then, Rakaji and Greshka would dart out to investigate the Scourge, but little changed aside from their stronghold growing in size.

Torgall wondered how the others were faring. Would the Scourge and Burning Legion strike out against them? Perhaps they had expanded to other parts of the land so they would be a more difficult target to strike at? Surely they would be able to weather the onslaught - it was a sizeable joint force, after all. Survivors from several of the human nations had travelled with Proudmoore, accompanied by a number of elves and dwarves; likewise, the Horde, alongside the Darkspear trolls and tauren tribes, was also numerous. Working as one, they were not likely to be defeated easily...

His other thoughts piqued his curiosity at how the night elves were handling this new threat. They had retreated abruptly when the Scourge had overwhelmed the outpost, but that was mostly because both the beleagured defenders and attackers were consumed in battling one another, and the prolonged battle had taken its toll on both sides. Thus, the night elves had slipped away as silently as they had come.

The orcs and humans, of course, had little chance to flee.

It was with that pondering that Torgall was struck with how lucky they were to have survived that doomed battle. So many had died, only to be risen in undeath as mindless slaves to the necromancers... What a fate, to be so cursed, disallowed the peace of death, but to be used as a puppet, not only against your will, but to attack and slay your friends and loved ones... Torgall shuddered at the thought.

It was not long before the bad news was brought forth - Rakaji returned, shortly followed by Greshka, and they confirmed that the Scourge as once again on the move, and clearly searching for the survivors.

"We have to move," they said urgently. Torgall did not answer immediately, instead pondering.

"Did you see any sign of the reinforcements?" he asked finally. Greshka opened her mouth to respond, then paused, apparently not expecting the question.

"Uh... no, no sign," she replied, frowning. "But I don't see-"

"Do we have any way of signalling to the reinforcements?" Torgall asked the group at large. Greshka gaped.

"You cannot be serious!" she said, half-shocked at what he was suggesting. "The Scourge will be drawn to us like moths to a flame!"

"The Scourge will find us eventually as it is," he said dismissively. "Does anyone-?"

"We have signal flares," one of the dwarves offered, holding up a pair of small red tube-like objects with wicks on the ends. Torgall inspected them.

"Yes, these should do nicely..." he murmured, turning the objects over in his hands. As he handed them back, however, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and whirled him about - Greshka.

"_What do you think you're doing!_" she hissed, eyes ablaze in fury, "You're sending us to our deaths!"

"Greshka," he said in a low voice, "if we stay here, the Scourge will find us regardless, and we fight and die alone. If we send up the flares, the Scourge will find us sooner - no sense delaying the inevitable - but if the reinforcements _are_ somewhere out there, then we stand a chance of survival."

"What do you mean, 'stay here'?" she repeated incredulously, "We can run! We can flee and-"

"Run where?" he interrupted calmly. "The forests teem with undead and demons. The night elves are no doubt on the outskirts, lusting for our blood. Even if by some miracle we avoid one, we'll no doubt be cut down by the others."

Greshka bit her lip, still glaring, and so he continued, "Moreover, you saw what happened the previous time. We cannot run forever, and the Scourge do not tire. Sooner or later, they will catch us."

She continued to glare at him for several moments, but then sighed and nodded. With her begrudging approval, Torgall took charge and began organising a defensive perimeter. Before long, makeshift barricades of stone and logs had been set up, providing a modicum of cover, and the snipers had hidden themselves effectively within the undergrowth. Torgall, Torgus and Greshka took up melee stances, the quarters being too tight for Greshka's bow to be of any real use, alongside the other grunts and footmen. When they were as prepared as they could be, Torgall nodded to one of the dwarves.

The dwarf pulled out a lighter, sparking the wick. It sizzled and flamed, and as it neared its end, the dwarf lobbed into the air. A moment later it spiralled up into the sky, leaving a thick trail of coloured smoke. As it reached its peak, it exploded into a shower of brightly coloured sparks which hung in the air for several moments before fading; the smoke, being thick and dense, took quite some time before showing any signs of dissipating. The other dwarf did likewise with his flare, leaving two columns of coloured smoke lingering in the air.

With that, they waited.

Their patience was not tested. Before long, the stench of rotting flesh crept into the clearing, and they knew the Scourge was approaching, and quickly. Torgall breathed deeply - perhaps this would be their last stand. At the very least he could die knowing they stood upright and defiant, giving their lives that they may hinder the advance of the undead. Whether that would prove true... well, they may never find out.

Abruptly, Greshka's ears perked slightly. "They come," she murmured. And sure enough, shortly thereafter they heard a distant rustling that warned them clearly of the approaching Scourge - the living dead had no use for subtlety.

They waited tensely, the rustling steadily growing louder, until at last, a pair of zombies emerged from the undergrowth. They were vaguely humanoid, but horribly deformed - undeath had rotted away at their flesh and bones, leaving them in a hunched position, and their arms and ankles had to be bandaged to help support the body. Thin, wispy grey hair sprouted from the head, and while the eyes held little emotion, the jaws were open, slavering hungrily, filled with rows of jagged, rotting teeth.

"Ghouls," muttered a footman, eyeing the two zombies carefully, "primitive, simple-minded. They hunger only for flesh, and attack on instinct. The rotted flesh means they can easily be destroyed, but they're surprisingly strong and agile despite their appearance. Be wary."

No sooner had he finished than the first ghoul leapt forward with a gurgling snarl, one claw-like hand raised. Torgall noticed that something - likely the plague - had caused the fingers to mutate into long talons. The ghoul was leaping at him, and immediately he ducked aside to dodge the vicious swipe. As the fiend came up and around, he brought his axe down as hard as he could. He needn't have put so much strength behind the attack - like the footman said, the rotting flesh parted easily, and the axe cleaved through the zombie like butter. The ghoul fell apart in two halves.

The second lunged at another footman and fell atop the unprepared human. Before anyone could react, the ghoul started tearing at the chainmail at a frenzied pace, and within moments was clawing at the fallen warrior. The human screamed as the talons ripped into his flesh. Torgus acted first, barreling into the ghoul and sending it tumbling. Before it even had a chance to take note of its attacker, he had brought his maul down onto its skull, sending bits of flesh, clotted blood and ichor splattering everywhere.

The human moaned in pain - the wound was not overly deep, but the ghoul's jagged claws had rent the flesh awkwardly; Torgall was briefly reminded of the wound he suffered at the blade of the fel orc during the battle against the Warsong. There was no time to tend to it the human's wound, however; already a necromancer had arrived with two more ghouls, along with one of the strange spider-like beings they had seen earlier. The creature had a similar body structure to a normal spider, but had an upper humanoid torso. The limbs had been bandaged, suggesting that the creature had been mummified at its death, at least until it had been forcibly raised into undeath.

One of the new ghouls charged forward, and a grunt moved to intercept it. At the same time, the undead spider raised its forelimbs and sprayed thick, sticky webbing over the wounded footman, practically spinning him into a cocoon. No sooner had the webbing set did the second ghoul leap onto the unfortunate victim, slashing wildly at the helpless warrior. Even over the fighting, they could hear his muffled screams.

As they cut down these two ghouls, another four arrived, and another four after that. Now they were truly battling frantically as the numbers steadily increased. To add to their worries, the necromancer cast debilitating curses on them to hinder their fighting abilities, and when he noted that the footman that first fell was dead, he began chanting dark magic - from the cocoon, the footman rose, still wearing his armour, his weapon held limply in his hand, but with a deadened look in his eyes. Torgall knew what the necromancer had done - he lunged forward and buried his axe deep in the zombie's chest before the necromancer could turn their fallen comrade upon them.

The snipers ended the threat of the necromancer, putting several bullets squarely in his chest from their undercover hideouts, before doing likewise to the spider creature before it could web another unwary warrior. Unfortunately, these victories were small, for ghouls and zombies continued to swarm the area, and while they fell easily, their numbers quickly became overwhelming.

Eventually, however, a truly terrifying threat emerged. The ground shuddered ominously, and both the defenders and Scourge alike stumbled slightly. Apprehensively, they looked to the source, and saw one of the huge, lumbering golem-like zombies approaching, shoving trees aside in its eagerness to rend and tear. This horrific monstrosity was clearly not the source of merely one creature, but many. Stitches and roughly-hewn plates covering its body made it clear that it had been mashed together from many body parts, but very poorly so; organs and entrails hung loosely from its form, trailing blood onto the ground. The creature had two treetrunk-like arms that carried huge cleavers, and a third, smaller arm that had a deadly hook and chain.

They had barely fought back the most recent pack of ghouls by the time this huge creature - an abomination, one of the footmen had managed to shout in warning between shoving back three of the ghouls - arrived to battle, and it did not waste any time. Its first action was to hurl its hook forward, impaling an unfortunate grunt - the orc bellowed in pain as the jagged metal ripped through his shoulder. The abomination tugged the rusty chain, pulling the screaming orc forward, before silencing him with one of the bestial cleavers.

This new threat posed a different kind of challenge - while the abomination had both the strength and size comparable to a doomguard or infernal, unlike a doomguard, it could not feel pain, and unlike an infernal, it had no obvious weak points to exploit. Torgall initially thought of the openings left in the sagging flesh, but it quickly became obvious those were there to be intimidating, and were of no real hindrance to the abomination.

Two more warriors were quickly felled by the hulking monstrosity - one cleaver came slamming down on a footman, cutting clean through the chainmail like paper. One of the dwarves attempted to move in closer for a better shot, and paid with his lfie - a huge, fleshy foot sent him crashing into a tree.

The battle was not progressing particularly well - the abomination was ably taking them down without assistance; the ghouls and necromancers stood a short distance away, watching the battle unfold. Their number was less than half, now - it was just Torgall, Torgus, Greshka, Rakaji, the remaining rifleman, and a grunt and footman. They stood in a close-knit circle, covering each other's flanks, but acutely aware that death was but an armslength away.

And then a shrill cry pierced the air.

"Rangers, attack!"

All at once, they were surrounded by elves. But these were not the savage night elves - these were the wild but beautiful high elves of Quel'thalas. They erupted as if from the land itself, wielding longswords like those Greshka had previously, slashing at the ghouls with blindingly quick but precise strikes; the undead crumpled by the dozen as the lightning-quick strikes severed limbs and heads. A number of them had slender, elegent longbows which propelled arrows with such force that they caused the rotting flesh to literally explode outwards.

Several rangers converged on the abomination, using unmatched agility to outmaneuver the lumbering giant. Amongst these was their leader - she had flowing shoulder-length hair, but hair that stood out like a beacon amongst her peers, for it was a bright, icy blue. She also wielded not a longsword, but a large two handed blade somewhere between a longsword and claymore, one with cryptic elven runes engraved upon it. What marked her as their leader was that she was not glad in forest green and brown leather armour, but ornate silver and gold chainmail with a ringmail hood and epaulets. The pristine elven craftsmanship allowed the chainmail to flow fluidly, but still provide excellent protection.

The abomination futilely swung at the new attackers, but their speed was far too superior, and it failed to land even a single blow. The rangers darted back and forth, slicing the rotting flesh over and over again. After a number of strikes, one of the arms fell away entirely with a rasping tear. The abomination's lopsided mouth opened and gave a gurgling bellow, and at that point the leader struck, driving her weapon down the undead giant's throat, then ripping it forward. As she did so, the blade suddenly glowed a bright blue, emitting a pulse of energy, and the shockwave tore the abomination outwards, causing its upper body to explode in a shower of giblets and rotted flesh.

With the abomination defeated and the Scourge forces taken by surprise, the rangers swiftly drove them back with little to no losses. Torgall the other survivors merely watched in awe as the elves secured the area, checking to make sure there were no further Scourge threats, as calmly as if they had simply frightened away a pack of wild animals.

"Sheryn! Scout the perimeter to make sure that there aren't any other ghouls lurking out of sight! Ryssa, tend to our wounded, we need to be on the move again swiftly!"

"Yes, commander."

"Right away, Sapph."

The other two elves nodded in confirmation to their leader and hurried off to obey her commands while she - Sapph, the second elf had called her - approached the exhausted survivors. She looked them over with a wry smile.

"Looks like we got to you just in time," she said, smirking, "setting off those signal flares was a sure fire way to bring every Scourge running within a five mile radius... Still, we wouldn't have found you if you hadn't, but they most certainly would have." She paused before asking, "Who's in charge here?"

They remained silent, though after a moment their eyes all turned to Torgall. Sighing internally, he cleared his throat.

"I... led these survivors from the hunting outpost. We were attacked by night elves, and subsequently the undead, and were forced to flee," he explained. "We do not believe any others survived."

Sapph looked them over a little longer before saying, "The whole outpost destroyed, then? Blast, that's going to hurt us... Well, you're lucky to have survived. Damned lucky, in fact. The forests are crawling with the Scourge and Burning Legion now - getting back to our fortress will be a right pain in the... well, it won't be easy."

"And how to you propose we do that?" Torgus asked before stopping himself. Sapph eyed him mischievously before answering.

"Well," she said with a grin, "that's what we're here for."

_Author's note: I'm sorry about the long delay on this one! I had mostly completed it when my laptop crashed, corrupting the file and meaning I had to start it over from scratch That event kinda put me off writing for a couple of days, so yeah, it ended up quite overdue. However, my exams are over now, so I can continue writing in earnest!_


	22. Enemy at the Gates

**Chapter 22: Enemy at the Gates  
**

"Oh, no..."

They had been travelling for several hours. After Sapph and her cadre of rangers had rescued them from the Scourge, she had led them southward, back in the direction of the main base. En route, they had encountered small Scourge and Burning Legion patrols, but they had been easily dispatched by the skilled rangers. Even the small handful of survivors had gained second wind, the presence of the elves renewing their spirits and granting them new strength.

As they had travelled, the evidence of the Scourge's corruption became increasingly evident. The lush, paradise-esque forests Torgall had observed previously while they had enjoyed their brief reprieve gave way to darker, twisted woods, but far different to those of Ashenvale. The waters now ran a sickly green, and even the sky had been tinted such a colour. The trees, instead of upright and healthy, were now bent and twisted, as though they had been struck with a strange disease, and even the normally peaceful wildlife had become savage and frenzied; more than once, they had to fight off a rabid wolf or bear.

Torgall reasoned that the presence of the Scourge and the raw evil they spread was affecting the land so, much in the same way Greshka had described - and no doubt the Legion had a hand in the corruption, as well. He expected the night elves were furious by this transgression - perhaps they would focus on the Scourge and Burning Legion, instead? Surely their corruption of the land was of far greater magnitude than the Warsong clan's actions.

As they progressed further southward, the forests remained dark, but the sickly green steadily changed to shadowy blue and purple. The creatures receded, growing fewer in number and less aggressive, and the strange blue spirits began appearing. They had returned to Ashenvale. The corruption had clearly not reached this far, and while the forests still retained their foreboding, almost claustrophobic atmosphere, the familiar forests heartened the beleagured survivors, knowing that relief was within reach.

Now, however, a most unwelcome sight greeted their eyes.

In their absence, a large wall had been constructed around the stronghold's perimeter, an act which had proven sound, as the base had now been surrounded by both demons and the undead. The gates held fast, and for the most part the demons and shambling corpses simply milled about pointlessly. Skeletal archers were firing flaming arrows over the walls, but there was no sign that they had caused any significant damage. A number of strange, spiky vehicles were also being manned by cultists, lobbing oddly-shaped red missiles that left a trail of red liquid. Closer inspection revealed that they were hurling corpses at the walls - Torgall looked away, sickened and disgusted at the macabre sight.

"Damn," whispered Sapph, "looks like we're a bit too late."

Even as they watched, archers from the towers constructed along the walls rained a volley of arrows down, and a handful of Scourge fell; the demons, protected by their thick, plate armour, were mostly unphased by the attack. In response, the meat-catapults fired several corpses at the towers, dissuading the achers from another attack.

"How long will the gates hold?" asked the remaining footman.

"A fair while," Sapph said in an unconcerned voice. "And we have several companies within - after all, this is our seat of power in this land, if you will. More than enough to repel this attack, anyway."

"So should dis assault be of concern to us?" Rakaji asked, frowning. Sapph simply shrugged.

"Unlikely. This seems to be more of a distraction - my guess is they're keeping us cooped up within our own base to stop us from expanding, and bolstering our forces."

"And there's no way for us to get in, is there," growled Torgall, glaring at the idle demons and undead.

"Let's not be too hasty, now," offered Sapph. "We'll get in eventually."

"But how-?"

"You'll see," she said simply. "Just be patient."

And so they waited. Torgall and his companions felt particularly tense - the gate could fail at any moment, unleashing a torrent of hungry dead and hateful demons into the stronghold. Sapph had assured them that there were enough standing forces to repel such an attack, but hadn't some of those very forces departed to join in the hunting of demons? Was it not very possible that the undead and demons could secure a very easy victory?

Even throughout all this, Sapph and her rangers remained wary, but otherwise disinterested in the attack, almost as if they were bored. Torgall was half-incredulous, half-exasperated at how calm they were at the situation. Undead and demons threatened to storm the base, and here they were fletching arrows, or sharpening their blades, or idly chatting to one another. How could they remain so palcid?

A heavy flapping of wings, coupled with a large shadow, caught his attention, along with Torgus, Greshka, Reakaji and the other survivors'. They looked up but the branches obscured the shapes. Dragons? Gryphons?

Something else entirely. From above them, a number of strange creatures mounted by orcs with eagle-shaped helmets soared past. The creatures they were riding were unlike anything Torgall - or the others, for that matter, though Sapph and her rangers apparently recognized them - had ever seen. They had leonine heads and bodies, but leathery, bat-like wings stretched across their forelegs, and segmented, scorpion-esque tails. Torgall had never seen such a beast, but by this point had ceased to be amazed by the plethora of beasts, animals and other beings in this foreign land.

"What in the name of the ancestors?" spluttered Torgus hoarsely. Sapph grinned at their shock.

"They're called wyverns," she explained. "Apparently your Horde befriended them while ascending Stonetalon Peak to seek out the Oracle. It's taken some time to fully earn their trust and learn how to ride them into combat, however - the windriders, the orcs you see mounted atop them, arrived soon after we sent out the hunting parties; about a day later. They've since proven to be excellent scouts, and moreover have been excellent at repelling attacks from the night elves."

"So the night elves have been attacking, then?" Torgall asked quickly. Sapph nodded.

"They were small in number at first, but quickly became a thorn in our side. That's one of the reasons we erected the outer wall, if only to keep the pests out."

The windriders were incredibly efficient in their duties. They would swoop down, thrusting a spear at an unsuspecting target with tremendous force - skeletons would explode in a clatter of bones, zombies and ghouls were forcibly ripped apart, and felguards were skewered, bellowing in rage and pain. Some would strafe the meat-catapults, hurling their spears with such force that they would become jammed in the mechanisms, rendering the siege engines useless. Cultists scrambled out of the way fruitlessly, only to have the wyverns themselves grasp them in their razor-sharp talons, shredding their unprotective robes and the flesh underneath with ease.

As the windriders set about breaking up the siege and causing the ranks to form, the heavy gates creaked open and two lines each of knights and wolfriders charged out, warhammers and warblades held aloft. The distracted attackers, already in chaos from the windriders, quickly fell. The first line was utterly trampled by the heavy warhorse's hooves, or savaged by the ferocious wolves' fangs and claws. The second line was made up of stronger infantry, including felguards, and did not falter as easily, but the massive weapons wielded by the mounted warriors was more than a match for them.

Even as they watched, the Scourge and Burning Legion attempted to reform ranks, but were repeatedly harrowed by the windriders swooping down upon them. However, Sapph was, for the first time, looking concerned.

"Something's not right here..." she said quietly to herself. "They're not attacking in full force..."

"What?" said Torgall, tearing his eyes away from the battle to stare at her in surprise, "You said just before they were only doing this to contain us!"

"I'm starting to think I was too quick in my prejudgement," she mumbled. "It seemed a sound plan at first - surround us, prevent us from gathering additional resources - but now, on reflection, I'm thinking this is more than just to hinder our advance. I think it's to keep us distracted."

"If you're going to say something, just spit it out," Torgall said through clenched teeth, becoming impatient with her roundabout talking. She fixed him with a steely stare, her icy-blue eyes almost sparkling like diamonds.

"I'm saying," she said quietly, "that there's probably a much bigger force building up, readying to attack us with a full onslaught."

"Wait," said Greshka suddenly, "hold on a moment. I saw the Scourge erecting a base earlier. They were summoning buildings, and spreading their plague."

"Yes," mused Sapph, "my rangers found similar signs, not least if the dying forest was not evidence enough. And knowing how the Scourge works, it won't take them long-"

Her words were drowned out by another flapping of wings, coupled with a shrill shriek. Grey-batlike creatures with glowing yellow eyes soared above them, flying straight at the windriders. Before the orcs or their mounts had reacted, the winged fiends were upon them, slashing with wicked talons or biting with jagged fangs. Several of the wyverns plummeted, their wings torn and bloodied - they and their riders were instantly set upon by the hungering Scourge below.

"Hurry!" cried Sapph, "We have to warn them of the impending attack!"

With that, she and her rangers immediately took off, making straight for the battle. As they ran, they rained a wave of arrows down on the attackers to assist the defenders. A cry went up as they neared, and a number of cheering footmen and grunts charged out to meet the attackers - evidently, Sapph's rangers were of some renown.

Torgall and his companions charged down after them, hot on their heels, hacking and slashing as best they could to assist in the confusion. He saw Torgus, screaming like a demon of rage, crushing undead and cultists alike with his massive maul. Greshka was darting lithely from target to target, felling them with her longblades. Rakaji fought like the windriders, hurling his spears with such force that they impaled themselves through even the thickest of armour. Before long, though not without much effort, they had fought their way up to and through the gates, where more infantry were gathering to assault the attackers.

"Prepare the defences!" Sapph screamed over the din of battle, "A second assault is en route!"

"What is this?" asked a female voice. Sapph turned to see a woman of similar height with short, trimmed black hair striding towards them, eyeing them concernedly. Her plate armour and green-and-gold tabard marked her as a high-ranking officer hailing from Kul Tiras. Sapph gave a quick salute.

"Colonel Lorena, it is my firm belief that the Scourge and Burning Legion have been assembling - or have chosen to withold - a second, much larger attack," she said quickly and concisely. "They have already begun their preliminary assault with their gargoyles." She gestured at the bat-like creatures that were harassing the windriders.

The Colonel frowned at the gargoyles, apparently lost in thought for a moment, before nodding and storming off, shouting commands and waving hand signals. At her behest, the gates were widened and the troops rushed outside, renewing their efforts to clear out the current attackers in preparation for the impending second assault.

"Surely they do not intend to rely in infantry and cavalry alone," said Torgall incredulously, "we need to bolster our defences further!"

"Colonel Lorena is too busy coordinating our current troops," Sapph pointed out, "she has no time to gather additional forces."

"Well, you can see where this is going," he growled, "Come on!"

He led them away from the battle, towards the Alliance side of the stronghold. Their first stop would be to alert the magisters. Peasents and commoners alike stepped aside in surprise, staring at them as they sprinted past. No doubt they were not aware of the magnitude of the attack.

The first people he felt he needed to alert were the magi. They wielded powerful magics which would prove invaluable against the oncoming attack, and so warning them would be top priority. He was dimly aware that the others were following him - he was too focused on warning the others to give it much thought - and wondered why he hadn't suggested they join the battle, but no matter; alerting the others was of most import at this time.

Before long they had reached the arcane sanctum where Yulgash had performed his infiltration possession spell. They burst inside, causing the wizards and magisters within to cry out in alarm.

"Lucethious!" Torgall panted, "Lucethious Manadawn!"

The wizards were staring and muttering to themselves, but Torgall was far too preoccupied to care - there were far more important things at stake.

"I'm here, Torgall."

He turned to see the red-haired elf striding towards him, frowning slightly at his battered equipment and seeing him doubled over, gasping for breath.

"Bigger attack imminent!" he spluttered, "No time to explain! Colonel is preparing the infantry and cavalry, but we need more! Much more!"

Lucethious continued to frown, but at Torgall's urgent glare, he nodded to a nearby mage. Before long, the wizards had begun filing out of the sanctum towards the gates. Torgall looked around.

"But where's Yulgash?" he enquired. The elf shrugged.

"Researching," he replied simply, "with the advent of the Burning Legion, he considers this an extremely prudent time to-"

"Get him," Torgall growled, cutting the elven noble off, "we need every able hand to repel the attack."

Lucethious blinked, then nodded and strode off. Still breathing heavily, Torgall turned to the others.

"We need to alert Fenris, as well," he said, "indeed, all the tauren tribes for that matter."

The others nodded, Sapph saying, "Lead on." Once more, they sprinted through the Horde-Alliance settlement. Around them, the sounds of battle were still prevalent, but things seemed to be getting more hectic rather than leading to a reprieve. As they ran, they passed a pack of headhunters, led by Rakaji, whom had detached himself from the group shortly after they entered through the gates; as they passed, they heard him bellowing, "FOR DA DARKSPEAR TRIBE!"

They continued running through the Horde half of the settlement, Torgall's head swivelling left and right for signs of the tauren. It did not take long to find them, given their size; many of the tribes were gathered together, and it was a mesh of different colours of fur; white, grey, black, brown, wheat and everything in between. Many of the tauren could hardly fail to notice the commotion outside, and were looking wary, fingering vicious poleaxes or drumming their thick fingers against heavy totems. The group pushed their way through the myriad of fur until they saw Fenris' distinctive wolf-armour.

"Torgall! Togus, Greshka!" he said quickly as he spotted them, "What in the name of the ancestors is going on? We've been weathering the siege-"

"There's a large force of undead approaching," Torgall interrupted without preamble, "we need you to assemble your tribe, and any other tauren you can rally."

Fenris' eyes widened, but he nodded, saying, "Very well. And you're sure of this?"

"Deathly sure," said Sapph, her ice-blue eyes flickering slightly, "we've seen their evil firsthand - the attack is most definately imminent."

Fenris eyed her for a moment before nodding a second time, turning to his tribe and barking orders in his own tongue. His words were not lost to the other tauren, and before long the other chieftains were also giving similar orders to their own tribes. Within minutes, a veritable stampede of tauren were charging towards the gates, eager for battle. This left Torgall, Torgus, Greshka, Sapph, Fenris and Kunasha standing together, accompanied only by the sounds of battle.

"Have you any idea where Gaznok is?" Torgall enquired, looking around, half expecting to see the small green madcap goblin bounding about with a malicious grin, menacingly cradling an explosive or volatile invention. Fenris merely shrugged.

"He has been inside the main keep, never really leaving except to demand more supplies for inventions," the tauren replied. "Even when the Kaldorei assaulted our walls, he simply turned his back and pretended they weren't there."

"Should we really spend more time getting him?" asked Greshka in a slightly strained voice, "We need to join the battle quickly! Who knows how long the Scourge-?"

"There are only a few of us," he interrupted, "we would make little difference. Gaznok's inventions, however, have proven incredibly useful, even if they do have a tendency to explode. We may not be able to turn the tide of battle, but _he_ might."

She bit her lip, but gave a quick jerk of her head after a few moments. Satisfied with that, Torgall led the group towards the main keep which stood alongside the ritual circle where Hellscream's spirit had been cleansed, and across from an orcish great hall. The structure was huge, almost intimidatingly so, and for a brief moment Torgall despaired at wasting even more time searching the building just for a lone goblin, but catching sight of this, Fenris tapped him on the shoulder and gestured, kindly taking the lead and showing them the way.

Up a staircase, across a corridor, through one room, up another staircase, through several doors... Torgall quickly lost track of where they were going, but Fenris apparently knew the path quite well. After a few minutes, he had led them to what had clearly been intended to be a storeroom, but what Gaznok had completely transformed into a laboratory-workshop of sorts. In the very centre, the goblin sat, unpeturbed by the shouts, screams and other sounds of battle that were faintly audible even within the keep, fiddling with yet another undiscernable device.

"Back again, Fenris?" he said in his squeaky voice, "I knew you were quite interested in the workings of engineering, but-"

"Gaznok," the tauren interrupted firmly, evidently not wishing to discuss the topic at the moment, "we need you urgently. Specifically, your inventions."

The goblin turned about, a look of impatience crossing his features.

"You know perfectly well I do not partake in battles as per goblin neutral- ah..." He had caught sight of the others, which suggested to the goblin that something on a bigger scale was afoot.

"These attackers are not interested in goblin neutrality," Torgall growled quickly, his impatience starting to get the better of him - the Scourge could already be attacking in full force, "they will go after your Cartel as soon as any other race on this continent. You would do well to help us stop them here and now."

Gaznok opened his mouth to say something, but Torgall bared his teeth, his eyes blazing; Gaznok quickly closed it and scurried about, gathering up a number of strange inventions and devices before darting out the door without a second glance.

"Good," said Torgall, breathing heavily, "now that we've russled up some additional reinforcements, we can join-"

"_There_ you are Greshka! And your companions too; perfect."

He cursed - further interruptions at this time were extremely unwelcome, and he felt liable to kick whomever was delaying them further. When he turned, however, he quickly withdrew that mental statement.

The intruder in question was none other than Nazgrel, who was striding towards them purposefully, though he was looking directly at Greshka. Torgall recalled that he was her commanding officer, and that she reported directly to him.

"Greshka, I have an important mission for you and your... friends," he said, pausing on the last word as his eyes lingered on Sapph for a moment. "We had a second settlement construced far north as per the hunt, but the windrider scouts returned bearing grim news - it is now in close proximity to the Scourge, and is deep within night elven territory. I have discussed the matter with Thrall and Proudmoore, and they agree that it is vital that we rescue those orcs as soon as possible. They could bear potentially useful information, but moreover we need all the standing forces we can get at this time." He paused to take a breath. "We realize that it will be difficult to reach them in time on foot, not least due to this attack, so you'll be going by air. Get in, rally the forces, and lead them back by land. There are a lot of soldiers out there, and we need every one."

He eyed them all carefully, as if expecting questions. When he received none, he slapped a meaty hand to his chest and said, "Lok'tar, and good luck."

As he strode off, axe in hand and ready for battle, they all turned to Greshka.

"Erm... Surprise?" she said humourlessly as they glared. When they continued to do so, she snapped, "Oh don't look at me like that, he's my superior, and I didn't see any of _you_ suggesting we do otherwise."

They continued glowering, at which point Torgall sighed and said, "Come on. The sooner we get this over and done with, the sooner we can get back to berating Greshka."

Ignoring her withering look, he allowed Fenris to lead them to the roof.


	23. Flight and Fight

**Chapter 23: Flight and Fight**

The wind blew stronger from this height, ruffling their hair and the manes of the wyverns. The vantage point offered them a clear view of the battle and its progress - the Scourge continued to press forward, but the defenders held strong. At the forest's edge, they could see one of the pale, horned demons in command, directing the corpses and cultists. Every now and then he would raise his arms and summon an infernal into the midst of battle, though such an attack was as beneficial as it was detrimental, for the resulting explosion destroyed demon, undead and mortal alike.

Despite the overwhelming odds, the defenders had a few advantages. The first was that while the walking dead were relentless, their rotting carcasses fell easily. The second was that over the course of the battle, the Legion seemingly vanished, leaving only the Scourge to finish what they had started. The third was due to the myriad of defenders, the Scourge had no real effective way to tackle them - either footmen formed an unyielding phalanx, or grunts would carve their way through the rotting flesh, or tauren would crush those foolish enough to stand in their way, or any other number of attack methods to which the undead had little to combat with. And lastly, sheer determination lent the mortal races strength that the undead lacked.

Torgall still felt uneasy leaving the defenders to their own devices, but Nazgrel's word was that of the warchief, and not to be contradicted. He gazed down at the battlers - while the defenders were holding strong, the tide of Scourge seemed endless; on and on, the ghouls would scurry out from the trees, or abominations would lumber forth. Torgall only hoped that they would not simply outlast the defenders before they returned.

He turned as the lead windrider approached, a burly orc named Valnok Windrager. Valnok wore a heavy spiked steel helm, unlike his fellow windriders, and hefted a massive trident-esque spear which was dripping with blood - blue, red and green. He raised the weapon in salute, and Torgall did likewise.

"My riders are ready to fly," he growled, and Torgall could see five other wyverns and their riders standing nearby, "we'll take your northward as swiftly as possible; we can be there within less than an hour."

As he spoke, the other windriders began leading their charges to the wyverns and helping them up. Torgus, Torgall was amused to see, seemed almost nervous to be seated upon one. Fenris, by contrast, seemed quite eager to be flying atop one of the creatures. He and Kunasha explained that wyverns were revered by the tauren for their ferocity and intelligence, having proven themselves on numerous occasions. Kunasha herself seated herself on her mount, smiling serenely as the windrider saddled up in front of her. Sapph and Greshka both seemed unconcerned by the situation, and were both seated and saddled, looking bored.

"You'll be riding astride Bristlefur," he said, indicating his own wyvern. Torgall nodded, accepting the leather harness Valnok handed him. Before long, he too was saddled and secure on the wyvern's back. He wondered whether the winged beasts would handle with two riders, particularly in the case of Fenris and Kunasha, but Valnok and his riders did not appear bothered by the extra passengers, and thus far the wyverns had done little in protest aside from a few half-hearted growls. When Valnok deemed everyone was securely in place, he slapped Bristlefur on the flank.

Immediately the wyverns launched themselves into the air as one, with the others following Bristlefur's lead. Torgall felt himself lurch forward and gripped at the reigns; he saw Valnok smirking at his startlement. It took a whole different mindset to get used to the heavy flapping of the wings which slapped at his legs, or the feeling that he could drop off at any moment, so little did the supports feel. He wondered in awe how Valnok and his windriders could have tamed and learnt how to ride these beasts, let alone have them carry them into battle.

He glanced at his companions - Fenris was having an animated discussion with his rider, and while Torgall could not hear them, they seemed to be shouting to make themselves heard over the beating of the wings and the rush of the wind; Kunasha was still smiling happily to herself, and had her eyes closed, resting her head on the back of the rider she was partnered with, apparently just enjoying the ride for what it was; Grehska and Sapph were still looking bored, but every now and then one would throw the other a furtive, almost challenging look; and Torgus, like Kunasha, had his eyes closed, but unlike Kunasha, he wore an uneasy grimace which clearly said that he would much rather have his feet on solid ground.

The stronghold swiftly receded into the distance behind them, the battle quickly becoming engulfed by the trees. As they flew, they could see Ashenvale proper. For the most part, it looked very similar to when Gaznok had flown them back from Everlook, save the barren, desolate landscape where the Warsong lumber camp previously rested, now abandoned save a wandering demon, and the dark, forboding canyon where Thrall and Hellscream battled Mannoroth. Here and there, they saw the outposts that had been established to hunt remaining demons, all but abandoned now; either they were empty, their defenders and workers recalled to the main base, or they had been demolished, whether by night elf, Legion or Scourge, it was too difficult to discern from their height.

As they progressed further, however, the changes wrought by the Legion and Scourge became more evident. Just as when they had traversed the forests on foot, Torgall could see the sickly green aura that permeated them, and through the thinner canopy than that of Ashenvale, he also observed the spread of the plague unto the land itself. Every now and then they could spot a ghoul or zombie meandering around aimlessly, and on these occasions, one of the windriders would command his wyvern to swoop down, grasping the unsuspecting undead in the razor sharp talons and bisecting it, dropping the two halves to collapse on the ground. Valnok had commanded his wyvern first, and Torgall only just realized what was about to happen before it did, and had quickly adjusted his grip and balance; a moment later he had felt his stomach leave him twenty feet above as the wyvern plummeted, and he had shut his eyes tightly until he felt them ascend and level out once more. This dive-bombing technique was repeated several times as they flew, helping to thin out the ranks of the Scourge.

Torgall found the sudden absence of the Legion both a relief and somewhat ominous. Whereas they had previously been as numerous as the Scourge themselves, now they had simply vanished. Granted, there was that strange pale demon who summoned the infernals, and the felguard were still present, but what of the doomguard, or the felhounds? Surely they had not been hunted down already; he felt slightly anxious about where the Legion had retreated to, for they were surely planning some new devious tactic. Nonetheless, they had no leads, and the most they could do was to keep their minds on the task at hand.

After a good half hour, Torgall noticed a particular change in the landscape. Before them was a large mountain, larger than any he had seen, and atop this - he felt his jaw drop - crested an enormous tree, the likes of which he never would have believed could exist. The tree stretched skyward, its massive leafy canopy tickling the heavens themselves, and Torgall had no doubt this marvel was of incredible importance to the natives of this land, be they night elf, tauren, furbolg or otherwise.

At the base of the mountain and its reason-defying tree, Torgall saw most of the forests convened. Nestled within these forests, which bore resemblance to Ashenvale, was a crystal-clear lake. At the edge of the forests surrounding this lake, there was the Horde base that had Nazgrel had described, and on the opposite side was a Scourge base. As they flew closer, they could see ghouls were hacking savagely with their claws at the tree, collecting lumber - and drawing nearer and nearer to the lake, where situated upon the shores was a fairly nondescript building and tunnel leading into the depths of the world. In addition to these features, there was also an island near the lake, where a large carved horn was situated upon an altar, and apparently guarding this horn were three mystical, semi-transparent beings that bore striking resemblance to the slain Forestlord. At the same time, there was also a night elf outpost nearby; this was no doubt due to being so deep in their territory, as Nazgrel had said. To their dismay, they saw the night elves were attacking not the Scourge, but the Horde. Thus far, fortunately, they managed to be holding strong.

As they drew closer to the Horde base, a few of the elven archers fired upon them, but the skilled windriders easily avoided the shots. The swooped down, landing amidst the startled orcs and trolls. Several were battling, but most seemed at ease thus far.

"Akinos!" Valnok bellowed, leaping from his mount as soon as the wyvern's paws had touched the ground, "Where is Akinos?"

"I am here," rumbled a deep, commanding voice. The group and riders turned to see an older orc approaching, older even than Torgus, but one who carried himself with both pride and strength. He wore little, if any, armour; he had cloth legs that had plates over the thighs and simple cloth boots, but nothing beyond that. He was also adorned with a necklace of thick, heavy beads and had a banner strapped to his back, one which Torgall did not recognize - it was embroidered with the image of a flaming sword. In addition to all this, the orc carried a mammoth broadsword; all of which marked him as a blademaster, the elite of the elite.

"Akinos," Valnok rumbled, bowing his head deferentially, "I ill bring tidings, of the worst sort."

The wizened old blademaster frowned but did not interrupt. Valnok continued, "The night elves advance, as you have no doubt been made aware, but there is a greater threat. Along with the Legion, the demons have brought the living dead with them - the humans termed them the Scourge. Even now they march against us, laying siege to our fortress. We have been sent to recall all standing forces in an effort to crush the Scourge offensive, giving us time to gather our resources for a strategic offensive."

As he spoke, he handed Akinos a letter which bore Nazgrel's signiature. The blademaster read it quickly, his wizened but sharp eyes darting back and forth before nodding and handing the missive back.

"You will gather your forces, then?" asked Valnok, and Akinos nodded.

"We will depart as swiftly as possible. But know this, Valnok, the night elves continue to press at us, a persistent thorn in our side. We will not be able to leave so easily."

"I understand," said Valnok, "my windriders and I will be able to provide you with extra support, and we have brought-" He gestured at the others. "-additional reinforcements. Rally those under your banner, Akinos, for time is-"

His words were drowned out by several battlecries at once. They turned, alarmed, to see a number of night elves charging forward, having broken away from the main group, and engaging a line of grunts. Akinos turned away from them without a second glance, readying his warblade and bellowing a scream of fury. He did not charge into the fray at once, but instead extended his arms outwards, chanting inaudible words. A moment later, three _more_ blademasters stood alongside him, but Torgall knew what the older orc had done - the legendary warriors were masters of deception and guile, and he had simply conjured a number of illusions. While the illusions were very realistic, they did no real damage, and indeed, as one of them swung at an unwary night elf, an attack that would have severed her head from her shoulders, the blade merely passed harmlessly through her neck. The real Akinos, however, leapt into the thick of battle, spinning and whirling with blinding speed, his warblade spraying blood into the air with incredible grace, like some gory dance.

At Valnok's unspoken command, the windriders took flight. They soared high into the air, then dived down, thrusting their spears or allowing their wyverns to attack. The night elves, not expecting such an attack, briefly faltered, which made them easy targets for Akinos and his warriors. At the same time, Torgall and his companions entered the battle. Fenris stampeded forward, slamming a heavy hoof against the ground that destabilised several warriors. At the same time, Kunasha clasped her paws together, closed her eyes and began chanting softly - a light wind kicked in. Greshka and Sapph each drew their bows and let loose arrow after arrow, while Torgall and Torgus rushed forward together, eager to join the battle.

Both sides seemed fairly evenly matched - though the orcs and trolls rebuffed the attack with ease, the elves continued streaming in like when they had overrun the hunting outpost. As the fight progressed, Kunasha continued chanting, and after some time a full-blown gale was battering at the night elves, yet leaving the orcs to fight unhindered. The sudden windstorm thoroughly impeded the night elves' attack, and before long they had retreated, but not without inflicting some losses.

"They are persistent," Akinos growled, the blood glistening off his warblade and reflecting in the sunlight, "we know not what they desire. We would have thought that our intent of hunting the demons would cease their attacks, but apparently not."

"They will continue to come at you, and with the Scourge so nearby, you will not be able to hold out forever," advised Valnok. "You have to come with us, and quickly."

"There is only one problem," Akinos said, staring past Valnok and at where the night elves came from, "and that is there is only one way out."

They followed his gaze, but the meaning was clear. Battle would have to be their escape.

Resigned to this fact, Valnok nodded and began discussing battle tactics and plans with his windriders while Akinos moved away to gather his forces for an offensive retreat. This left Torgall and his companions standing amidst the Horde base, feeling somewhat out of place.

"So... now what?" asked Torgus, addressing Greshka. She simply shrugged.

"We've done our part," she said. "The forces have been alerted and are preparing to return to the stronghold... I suppose all we can do now is wait."

But they did not have to wait long. It took barely half an hour for Akinos to assemble his forces in a very efficient and timely manner. Similarly, Valnok and his windriders were ready to fly, their wyverns rustling their wings and tossing their heads impatiently. Akinos surveyed his assembled forces, eyed Valnok and his windriders for a moment, then nodded and raised his warblade.

"Warriors! The Horde is in need of your strength!" he bellowed impressively, "Beyond these narrow-minded warrior women is a threat that faces not only us and them, but everyone and everything in this land! We must remain steadfast and battle on, my brothers - for these elves stand between us and our brethren, who are in need of our aid! For the Horde!"

He bellowed a throaty warcry, and was joined with the other orcs assembled - the harsh sound ringed with a lust for battle. With that, he leapt into the undergrowth, his warriors close behind. Torgall and his companions followed - for a few moments, they crashed through the trees and bushes, the branches scraping at their faces and threatning to remove an eye, until they burst into a clearing swarming with night elves. Torgall gaped for a few moments - he found it not a little astounding that they could have constructed such a large base so nearby.

The outer defenders fell quickly, unprepared for such a swift and vicious counter-attack. Akinos and his warriors charged directly into the fray, cutting a swathe through the startled defenders. They were followed up by a number of headhunters who, like the windriders above, hurled their spears with both deadly accuracy and force. While a number of night elves were impaled, whether fatally or otherwise, Akinos and his warriors seemed unconcerned about slaying them, and more about simply escaping.

Sapph leapt straight into the battle, bringing her claymore to bear. The elf carried it with surprising agility for a weapon of such size - she struck with the deadly force of a blademaster, and more than once Akinos had thrown her a sidewise astonished glance. With each swing, the elven runes engraved on the blade would glow a pale blue, not as strong as when she slew the abomination, but enough to engulf the entire claymore in a light blue hue. As the glowing weapon would strike its target, it would cleave easily through flesh and armour alike, seemingly bypassing any and all protection the unforunate victim may be wearing. Sapph, in her on right, was a force to be reckoned with, using her lithe agility and enchanted claymore to deadly effect.

It did not take long for the night elves to regroup, however, and within moments, a number of their panther riders were stampeding towards the battle. Fenris himself led a charge against them, swinging his totem with startling swiftness, but equal force - one panther was toppled entirely, its rider sent flying. Alongside him rode several wolfriders, who engaged the night elves in mounted combat. In the midst of this, Fenris slammed his totem to the ground, releasing a rippling shockwave of energy that destabilized the elves, allowing even more of Akinos' warriors to pass.

Kunasha did not join the battle as readily as her companions, but rather stood near the back - whenever a warrior, orc, troll or otherwise, would be caught by a felling blow, she would rush forwards, a faint green glow surrounding her paws. Easing the fallen warrior into a sitting position, she would chant softly and melodiously, the green glow spreading not unlike when she had healed Torgall during the battle against the infernals. Though she was unable to save every fallen ally, she did help reduce their losses.

Torgall, Torgus and Greshka battled as one, axe, mace and sword leaving a veritable trail of destruction in their wake. Greshka would strike with blinding quickness, and while her attacks were not always enough to fell her opponent, they were enough to keep them uncertain - at the very least, she warded attackers away. Torgus, on the other hand, took the complete opposite approach, swinging with unbridled fury, slamming his weapon into the elves with all his strength. The drawback with this strategy was that between each swing, he left himself open to attack, to which Torgall would cover his flank. The younger orc balanced strength and swiftness, sometimes slaying his foes, at other times simply unbalancing them, but for the most part he kept away the attackers that would get past Greshka, allowing the three orcs to move relatively unhindered through the night elf base.

Though the night elves put up an admirable defense, the orcs washed over them in a green tide. However, their intent was not to kill, merely to escape. Despite leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, the small but formidable portion of the Horde left most of the defenders still standing, and though several structures were ablaze, for the most part, the night elves had suffered little in a relative sense. The Horde disappeared as quickly as they had come, and though a handful of elves gave chase, they recognized the pursuit as futile and abandoned the attempt.

Torgall, Torgus and Greshka pushed their way through the undergrowth, panting from the exertion but mostly unharmed. Greshka had suffered a few cuts to the arms, and Torgall had a nasty gash on his leg which had, ironically, been bandaged by Torgus, who himself had a few bruises obtained from using his very body as a weapon, charging into the night elves to barrel them over, or sometimes intercepting and intervening when they would attempt to attack Torgall or Greshka.

Before long, Fenris and Kunasha had rejoined them, and Sapph shortly after that. They, too, had minor injuries which they bore stoically for the moment, though they had little choice - the Horde defenders were marching swiftly and purposefully southward, which allowed them no time for Kunasha's healing magic.

"Well, that went well," grinned Sapph, breathing heavily. Her ornate chainmail armour was splattered with purple-blue blood, as was her claymore, and her otherwise elegant blue hair was now wild and untamed, and bore resemblance to Greshka's.

"We slew barely a quarter of them," Torgus noted, half-glancing over his shoulder. Sapph shook her head, and Greshka interjected.

"Our orders were to simply assemble and extract the Horde forces - everything else was secondary," she said. Torgus frowned slightly, but nodded all the same.

"And now, we march southward... again," said Torgall with a sigh. Above them, the windriders circled, and beyond, the corrupted forests stretched endlessly, a testament to the daunting task that lay ahead of them.


	24. Dragonrider

**Chapter 24: Dragonrider**

The twisted forests north of Ashenvale were eerily silent as the sun rose, casting weak rays of light through the noxious green mists that permeated the forest floor. The sunlight twinkled, casting off a sickly green light that only further added to the haunting atmosphere. The Scourge and Burning Legion had done their job thoroughly, corrupting the land itself, and the silence was compounded by the lack of wildlife - or the illusion thereof. In reality, wolves, bears and other predators stalked the shadows, their sharp eyes coloured yellow and bloodshot, and there they would wait, ready to savage the unwary. On the rare occasions they were thrown into light, the illumination brought the effects of the corruption into sharp relief, revealing angry welts and infected wounds, partches of fur missing and frenzied, snarling mouths.

Eventually, the silence was broken by the loud pounding of heavy paws thudding along the ground. Wolves and bears alike retreated into the shadows as enormous wolves thundered past, their riders carrying massive warblades stained with green ichor. These wolfriders charged through the forest effortlessly towards where a large regiment of the Horde was preparing to continue marching purposefully southward.

As the wolfriders approached, a wizened old orc carrying a similar weapon looked up and raised his weapon in salute, acknowledging their arrival.

"Scouts," he rumbled through the misty morning, "what news?"

"The Scourge have set up a great many number of encampments, but the main largest ones are here, here and here," said the lead rider without preamble, withdrawing a map and indicating the spots as he spoke. "The remaining bases are trivial, and we could easily demolish them, but for the sake of preserving the strength of our forces, my scouts and I can direct you through the forests with minimal conflict."

The blademaster nodded, but did not speak immediately, instead looking skyward. The raider followed his gaze, before the commanding orc said in a gravelly voice, "I shall await Valnok's return first. Once he has given us his aerial report of the Scourge's movements, we will be able to plan our own-"

His words were drowned out by a roaring screech, that sounded like it could only have come from one creature - and sure enough, a pack of wyverns suddenly swooped out of the sky, down upon the orcs. At their head was Bristlefur, and mounted atop him was Valnok. The windrider swiftly looked around at the assembled orcs before directly addressing the blademaster.

"Akinos," he said, nodding his head deferentially before launching into his explanation of the Scourge, "they have numbers of ghouls prowling the forests, as with zombies - nothing my windriders couldn't take care of, of course-" As he spoke, they noted that the wyverns' claws were splattered with the same fluids coating the wolfriders' warblades, "-but we can tell there are plenty more lurking within the trees. We saw no sign of the acolytes, nor of the Legion; it's very likely that they're concentrated south to attack our stronghold once more, but there's no telling what could be hiding out there. We must proceed with caution."

Again, Akinos nodded, apparently lost in thought; his eyes gazed unfocused into the distance, glazing over slightly, before he shook his head and then said in a commanding tone, "Very well. We march south, then - the Horde awaits."

The defenders of the outpost to the far north had departed their ill-fated base in the late hours of the afternoon, and before long night had fallen. They were greatly reluctant to rest for long, though, knowing full well that their brothers could be battling for their very lives. However, Valnok and his windriders consented to fly south once more, to bring news of the base, and returned with exhausted but wry smiles. The Scourge had mostly retreated, and Valnok had spoken with the defenders - they had weathered the attack, not without some losses, but were ready to make another stand come the morrow. Without the reinforcements, however, they were far more likely to suffer heavy losses.

With the return of this news, the forces allowed themselves a brief respite, though Akinos decreed that they resume their march at first light. None had argued, with an agreement in unison that they must return to the stronghold with haste. With the advent of the breaking dawn, Akinos had sent out scouts by both land and air, that they could plan the most direct, but least dangerous route, to the base.

Akinos turned towards his assembled warriors. "Onward, to our brothers!" he bellowed, and they roared defiantly, challenging the Scourge test their might. With that, they resumed their resolute march.

Sapph shook her head at the noise. "Fools," she muttered to herself, "they'll bring every ghoul and cultist running from every corner of the forest..."

"Let them come!" snarled Torgus, who had overheard her, brandishing his maul threateningly, "we'll crush their fragile skulls and smear their rotting entrails over the forest floor!"

Kunasha rested a paw quellingly on his shoulder. "Yes, but think about our brethren to the south," she said soothingly, "you'll be unfit to help them if your armour is in tatters with wounds spilling your blood..."

Torgus growled, but conceded to the point. Fenris, on the other hand, nodded approvingly, apparently agreeing with the girzzled orc's enthusiasm. No doubt it pained him to see his lands defiled so.

However, no such attack arose. Despite the obvious presence of orcs, trolls and other warriors following Akinos' lead, no ghouls leapt at them from the shadows, no abominations came lumbering through the trees, no necromancers crippled them with dark magic. Either the Scourge was mustering its forces for a second, possibly larger attack on the combined Alliance and Horde defenders, or the scouts had done their job well - or perhaps both.

After some time of marching, Torgall heard Sapph say, "Fenris, isn't it?" He glanced over at the two to see the tauren nodding, at which she continued, "Tell me - is it true you that you lead an entire herd of your people?"

Fenris frowned at the term, to which Greshka hissed, "_Tribe!_"

With that clarification, Fenris' expression cleared - evidently not having understood the term 'herd' - and he answered, "Yes, my mate, Kunasha, and I lead the Direhoof tribe. I lead our warriors and hunters, and she is our spiritual leader."

"But what I don't understand," said Sapph, "is that you say Kunasha is a spiritual leader, and yet you too seem to wield powerful magic as well."

At that, Fenris chuckled slightly. "Yes, it is true that I am a shaman, granted powers by the elements. I can call to them for aid, and if they deem my cause and intentions worthy, they will lend me their power; fire and lightning to obliterate my enemies, the earth to come to my defense, the wind to speed me to battle, water to heal and soothe."

Sapph frowned. "But I thought it was Kunasha who-"

"My mate's healing powers are more potent, 'tis true," continued Fenris, "but shamans are also granted healing powers by the elements and our Earthmother."

Sapph's frown deepened further. "Now I am truly confused - does she not use the same powers-?"

"No, my powers are not granted by the elements," Kunasha said softly, "but rather, are drawn directly from the Earthmother herself. This form of magic is rare in my people, but well practiced among the Kaldorei."

"Indeed?" mumbled Torgall absently, recalling the deadly skill of their warriors and finding it impossible to imagine them like Kunasha's gentle nature.

"They are called druids," continued Kunasha, "a sect practised only by the males of their species-"

"So they _do_ have males?" blurted out Greshka. Torgall frowned, realizing that he, too, had yet to see a male elf, discounting the elf-demons they had seen in Azshara.

"Yes, though they seclude themselves away from the world for many years at a time in underground dens - the Kaldorei name them Barrow Dens - and so are rarely seen. Not all the males are druids, of course; others become skilled craftsmen or artisans, or ocasionally hunters."

"So... your powers," said Sapph slowly, speaking to Fenris, "are given to you by these 'elements', while yours-" She spoke to Kunasha, "-are from this 'Earthmother'?"

"Effectively, yes," Fenris said brusquely. He had not missed the slight skepticism in her voice.

"The orcs once had shamans," Torgall said suddenly, and they all looked at him. "We communed with the spirits of the land, and with our ancestors... of course, this was before Ner'zhul... which is ironic," he added, his voice raising somewhat, and trembling slightly, "as he was possibly the mightiest shaman we have ever seen, and yet influenced the deepest, darkest corruption of our people..."

At Torgall's endorsement of the existence of shamans, Sapph had raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Greshka and Torgus, too, had remained silent, though their expressions remained closed somewhat at the mention of the corruption. The sudden gloomy turn that the conversation had taken was abruptly interrupted by Valnok Windrager - Bristlefur swooped down, and he leapt forth, his eyes looking rather wild.

"Dragons!" he croaked hoarsely. Akinos' eyes widened slightly, but he had barely signalled for the headhunters and archers to prepare themselves when not one, but _two_ shadows descended over the detachment of troops.

However, the owners of these shadows could not have been more different.

The first and foremost, and thus most obvious difference, was that one of these was living, and the other was quite clearly dead. The second was that one of these dragons - the living one - had two heads, while the other merely possessed one. There were other differences, as well, but the only real important thing that mattered to the Horde was the disposition of these behemoths.

The living, two-headed dragon, Torgall realized, he had seen in the snowy moutains above Azshara, or at least another of its kind. Strangely, the scales appeared loose, light and fluttery, giving the appearance of feathers rather than proper scales. The two heads swivelled constantly, surveying the other behemoth, and occasionally dripped corrosive bile, or crackled with lightning.

The undead dragon, on the other hand, was almost completely skeletal, save some bits of rotting flesh hanging from the bones. It glowed with an eerie blue aura that clearly signified its forcible rise from the dead, but also emphasized its mode of attack - the bony jaws, complete with razor-sharp teeth, swirled with a frigid breath that chilled the warriors even down below.

Luckily, as it transpired, the two mostly seemed interested in slaughtering each other, and took barely any notice of the smaller combatents beneath them, supremely unconcerned of the puny arrows and spears they had strung and raised. Valnok seemed more than ready to engage, but Akinos stayed his hand, and Torgall heard him mutter, "Let them tear each other apart first. No sense fighting two battles at once."

Torgall was relieved to hear that, as he greatly disliked the thought of having to fight two of these monsters at once - one was more than enough. Moreover, at least a good two thirds of the ground forces were grunts and other warriors well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, and as such would do little more against a dragon beyond providing it morsels of food.

"What in the name of the ancestors _is_ that?" Kunasha breathed in horror, staring wide-eyed at the undead dragon, "It's... an abomination!"

"A frostwyrm," said Sapph through clenched teeth, stiffening as though prepared to run at a moment's notice, "what in the name of Dath'remar is _that_?!"

"A chimera," answered Fenris, nodding at the two-headed dragon, "mythical dragon allies of the Kaldorei. They mostly reside to the north, in the lands called Winterspring; some are also found in the surrounding forests or lowlands. They fiercely protect the creations of the Earthmother."

This was proven a moment later as the chimera struck out, flying towards the frostwyrm and slashing at it with its claws. Such an attack proved unwieldy, given the claws were latched to the wings not unlike those of a wyvern, but the force of the strike was still enough to throw the frostwyrm off its flight. The skeletal dragon swiftly worked to right itself.

The ground forces watched both tensely and in awe as the two giants clashed repeatedly. The frostwyrm countered the chimera's attack by flying upwards, then swooping down. It opened its mouth, the swirling cold winds within coalescing, but at the last moment it feinted, outstretching its front claws instead. The chimera was forced to do an awkward roll to avoid the attack, one which was only partially succesful; it suffered a long gash to its side.

The two heads on the chimera roared in both pain and fury, and the two-headed dragon banked heavily, soaring directly towards its target. As it neared, one of the chimera's jaws opened wide, and it spewed forth a torrent of steaming green bile. The frostwyrm swiftly dodged this attack, and the corrosive fluids splashed down onto the forests below; the twisted, dying trees sizzled and burned, the acidic attack reducing them to bubbling puddles of green ichor.

The frostwyrm retaliated in kind, but seemed to be more cunning than its adversary. Noting the Horde warriors on the ground, it again flew up to attack from above; as before, it swooped downwards, but this time it did follow through with its frost breath. A cone of freezing cold billowed outwards, catching the chimera on the wing and blanketing the forest below in biting ice. Several orcs gave short-lived screams as the piercing ice froze them in their tracks, whereupon they fell face-forward, some shattering upon impact.

At that, both Akinos and Valnok Windrager bellowed in fury, the latter slapping Bristlefur's flank, and he and his windriders launched into the air. They circled the frostwyrm threateningly, spears raised for the kill. The skeletal dragon followed their movements for a moment before returning to the literal bigger threat. The chimera, having suffered the freezing breath on its wing, was now struggling to remain stable, but still roaring defiantly. Despite its injury, it flew straight for the frostwyrm, one mouth crackling with lightning. At the same time, Valnok and his windriders struck.

The frostwyrm, intent on attacking the other dragon, did not notice the wyverns until too late. Their riders struck at the bony limbs, splintering the skeleton. Fortunately for their sakes, the frostwyrm now had no choice but to follow through with its attack on the chimera. The frostwyrm's distraction evened the odds slightly, making up for the chimera's injuries. The two giants clashed, snapping at one another or slashing with their razor-sharp claws. Occasionally one of the chimera's heads would issue a blast of lightning, though such attacks did little against the bony opponent. Below, Akinos had his archers and headhunters ready, but waiting, for fear of accidentally striking and inciting the chimera.

Under normal circumstances, two heads would be better than one, but the frostwyrm held a brutal cunning and no remorse thanks to its undeath. The chimera's wily attacks were countered again and again, and while it could bite with two jaws at once, the frostwyrm always seemed able to dodge the more dangerous attacks. Valnok and his riders occasionally tried to attack, but on these attempts the frostwyrm would swipe viciously at them with its tail or talons, dissuading them from further attempts.

Eventually, however, one was bound to gain the upper hand, and unfortunately it happened to be the frostwyrm. It caught one of the chimera's heads with a heavy blow, causing the head to loll about dazedly. At the same time, it snapped at the other head, sinking its teeth into the long neck. The head shrieked in agony, thrashing about wildly before slumping forward. The pain seemed to revive the dazed head, but as it rose to try and strike back at the frostwyrm, the nightmarish dragon's maw opened, again emitting a blast of freezing breath, but this time at point-blank range. The chimera's movements came to an abrupt halt, its grip suddenly going limp, and the behemoth dropped out of the sky like a stone, crashing through the trees and hitting the forest floor with a defeaning crash and such force that it caused the very earth to shake.

No sooner had the frostwyrm released the unfortunate chimera did Valnok's windriders engage in earnest. At the same time, those forces on the ground began their attack. Without the potential threat of accidentally striking and aggravating the chimera, they could attack with their full fury. The windriders fought with the ferocity of their mounts, darting in and out and attempting to thrust their spears into the dragon while the ground soldiers supplemented their attacks with their own. However, the bones were thick, and the attacks proved largely ineffectual.

The frostwyrm snapped and swiped at the smaller attackers, but the wyverns were quite agile and easily dodged the clumsy strikes. However, the frost breath was far more deadly, given the wide area it could cover, and more than once it had abandoned attempting to slay its airborne attackers in favour of going after the archers and headhunters. On these occasions, it would swoop down, bathing the forest floor in a blanket of freezing winds, and the warriors were forced to scatter into the surrounding trees.

It was on the third time that this occured that Torgus, having had to dive with his companions to avoid the frigid breath, straightened and, glaring, scanned the sky. After a few moments, he raised his thick arms and began waving them, bellowing, "VALNOK! VALNOK WINDRAGER!"

His friends glanced at one another in confusion, but he paid them no heed. After almost a minute of shouting at the windriders, one of them disengaged and flew down towards them. It was indeed Valnok and Bristlefur, the former staring at him half-angrily, half-questioningly. Without a word, Torgus thrust his maul into Greshka's arms, strode forward, leapt onto the wyvern along with its rider and slapped the flank; Bristlefur took flight once more.

"Torgus, no-!" Torgall started as he saw what his friend was doing, but a moment too late. Torgus was already far above them, gesturing at Valnok.

* * *

"Your spear, Valnok! Give me your spear!" Torgus shouted over the roars of the skeletal dragon and the rush of the wind. Valnok raised a quizzical eyebrow but, with some difficulty, managed to hand the older orc his jagged weapon.

"Now, closer!" yelled Torgus. This time Valnok stared at him as though he were insane; somehow he knew what Torgus was preparing to do.

"What do you intend?" he shouted back, steering Bristlefur closer. Torgus merely grinned.

"I used to be a dragonrider - I'll do what I do best!" he bellowed.

With that, he leapt.

For several moments, everything seemed to move in slow motion, and for a few scant seconds, a shadow of doubt pierced the recklessness that had overcome him. But he knew what had to be done. The windriders' attacks were ineffectual, and the ground forces would be decimated before long. Frustration had begun to overwhelm him, but he had soon realized that more direct - if not outright foolhardy - action needed to be undertaken.

And then he hit the spine with a heavy thud that jolted him out of his brief musing. The battle returned to him in full force, and he focused on the task at hand once more. Gripping Valnok's spear tightly, he slowly but surely crawled his way up the frostwyrm's back. The cold aura chilled his skin, but he had more important things to worry about at the moment. He had seen this technique used once before in the closing days of the Second War, when he and a fellow dragonrider had fought a small flight of gryphons; a brave, or perhaps simply stupid paladin had managed to drive his weapon into the head of his companion's mount. At the time, however, the battle was taking place over the ocean, and neither the paladin nor the dragon had survived the fall.

Now he found himself using the same tactic. Inch by inch, he crawled up the dragon's spine, then neck, until he was perched on its skull, and still the frostwyrm was too focused on trying to slay the windriders to notice him. Gritting his teeth, he lifted the spear, whispered a brief chant to the ancestors, and then plunged it down.

The thick skull splintered and cracked underneath the force before buckling completely, and the weapon sunk deep, as he expected. He also expected the dragon to die, perhaps not immediately - but found himself disappointed. The skeletal monster gave a echoing roar that chilled the spine, and began thrashing about, but beyond that gave no signs of slowing. Twice he was forced to dodge a claw that threatened to send him flying and plummeting to a sudden death, and for the most part he gripped onto the spear for dear life - it was, at the very least, firmly lodged within the frostwyrm's skull, and made for ample gripping.

A few times, a windrider would fly down near him, a hand extended, but both the rider and Torgus knew that such a rescue attempt would more likely result in the rider being pulled from his mount, probably to his death. Moreover, the frostwyrm would swipe viciously at any who came too close, and before long they had given up on such a tactic.

To Torgus' dismay, after a few minutes, the frostwyrm seemed to change its mind altogether. With one last frustrated roar, it spewed a final freezing breath attack, launched itself higher into the air, and took flight over the trees - with the frantic orc still grimly clutching the spear.


	25. Enemy of my Enemy

**Chapter 25: Enemy of my Enemy**

"Absolutely not, grunt."

"But-"

"Our orders are to return to the stronghold immediately; we need every strong arm, and we cannot divert resources to rescue your friend. I'm afraid that he's gone."

Torgall stared, incensed and fuming, at the old blademaster, who regarded him with narrowed eyes. After the fight between the two dragons, it quickly became clear that Torgus had been carried off with the frostwyrm. His immediate action, then, was to ask Akinos to dispatch forces to retrieve him - or at least discover his fate.

He had been sadly disappointed.

"Then allow me - us - to find him," he urged, indicating Greshka, Fenris, Kunasha and Sapph. Akinos stared, slightly wary, considering.

"No," he said heavily, "as I said, we need every able fighter to join us. We cannot-"

"A handful of us won't make a difference-" Torgall started, but Akinos cut him off.

"_I_ decide how many soldiers make a difference," growled Akinos warningly. Torgall fell silent, and the blademaster continued to watch him carefully, before saying, "I'm sorry, but your friend is lost."

Torgall nodded slowly, returning to the others who had been watching from afar; the conversation had been held mostly in whispers and low growls, so as not to attract the attention of the other warriors. In the chaos of the battle, few had realized that one brave orc had literally leapt onto the back of the monster and attempted to slay it directly.

Valnok Windrager had immediately led a chase after the frostwyrm under the pretence of trying to finish off the dragon, or so they had told Akinos. The windrider had then quietly disclosed to Torgall and his companions that he had followed the dragon's path, and seen it descend within a Scourge camp. They were able to see Torgus put up a brief fight, but he was swiftly overwhelmed. A shadowy human had approached the captured orc before they had been spotted circling above, and were forced to flee.

"Your friend is captured, that much is clear," he had told them, "but something about the whole scenario suggests he hasn't simply been slain... Perhaps he is still alive."

It was that potential hope that Torgall had seized upon, and attempted to convince Akinos with - omitting the fact that Valnok had intentionally led his windriders for the very purpose of discovering Torgus' fate - but with little success.

"What of-?" Greshka began to ask, but Torgall shook his head darkly. Her face fell, her dismay apparent, and Fenris, too, was frowning.

"But we cannot simply leave a warrior in the hands of these abominations!" he burst out angrily, "It would be shameful!"

Torgall sighed, agreeing inwardly, but saying, "True, but Akinos believes the greatest objective at the moment is to continue south."

"But has he not seen all the warriors he commands?" snapped Greshka, staring around at the many grunts, headhunters and other soldiers continuing the march purposefully southward, "How are we to make a difference if we are absent?"

"A sentiment I agree with, but which Akinos does not," sighed Torgall. "We are to continue south and leave Torgus to his fate."

Greshka stared at him disbelievingly - she looked as though he had struck her. However, before she could say anything, Sapph was speaking.

"Of course," she said, having listened to this entire conversation while staring in another direction disinterestedly, but now fixing Torgall with a smirk, "you don't intend to actually _follow_ those orders, do you?"

Torgall returned the smile.

"No," he said simply, "I do not."

* * *

"More gargoyles from above!"

"Archers, protect the magisters!"

Colonel Lorena's order cut across the sounds of battle, and elven and orcish archer alike hastened to obey her command. Sure enough, the gargoyles made straight for the magic wielders, amongst which stood Jaina Proudmoore, Lucethious Manadawn and Yulgash, but were repulsed by a veritable hailstorm of arrows. Several of the batlike fiends screeched as the projectiles tore through their wings, and they plummeted to the ground.

"Fight on, my warriors! Our brethren rush to our aid!"

Thrall charged into the thick of the battle, swinging Doomhammer with incredible force. He rushed headlong at an abomination, slamming the mighty hammer against the ground - the earth buckled outwards, upending the hulking monstrosity, at which it was immediately set upon by a number of warriors. The warchief then summoned the elements to unleash a barrage of lightning - several skeletal warriors were reduced to piles of charred bones.

As a pack of ghouls rushed to take their place, a magical blizzard bathed the undead. From atop the ramparts, the magisters were working together for a focused magical assault. The key aspect of this magical attack was that it attacked the unliving alone - within moments, several of the Scourge had been frozen in place. The infantry defenders capitalized on this advantage, slamming the frozen targets with enough force to cause them to shatter.

And yet still the Scourge kept coming.

At the outskirts of the battle, the Scourge catapults - dubbed meat wagons - continued to hurl festering corpses at the walls. While physically they dealt little damage against structures, the rotting meat carried all number of diseases, and were very effective at dispersing the defenders. The Alliance had stationed a number of ballistae on the walls with the archers and magisters, but it was difficult to strike the wagons with the heavy bolts - the catapults were more mobile, and the cultists were wily enough to keep them out of striking range.

"We can't keep this up forever," Yulgash panted, invoking another incantation - a gargoyle burst into flame and fell, shrieking, to the ground.

"We must remain vigilant," Lucethious murmured - he gestured, and a several bolts of energy rocketed outwards, striking an abomination square in the head, knocking it to the ground. A moment later he was forced to dive down, cursing, as a gargoyle swooped down at him, its claws missing him by inches.

"But where has Torgall gone? And his companions?" asked Yulgash, frowning with concentration as he summoned a rain of fire upon the advancing Scourge - the searing flames scorched a number of the shambling zombies.

"I believe..." grunted Lucethious, straightening up and dusting off his robes, "that they have been sent to the north... to retrieve some Horde forces or somesuch..."

"We sure could use them..." muttered Yulgash, withdrawing some fine crystal powder from within his robes. He held his hand out, palm up with the powder atop it, and waved his other hand over the powder. Immediately it was launched into the air, where it fell upon those below - and when it touched the Scourge, they burst into flame. He nodded before adding, "there's only so much we can do..."

* * *

"I think he may have stopped watching us."

"Are you sure? If we're spotted..."

"Even if we are, I doubt he'll spend much time chasing us down - he's too focused on relieving our brethren."

"Indeed - his very fervor will be his undoing in this matter..."

They held their conversation in whispers, trying to remain inconspicuous and avoiding attracting Akinos' attention. Since Torgall's attempt to convince him to allow their leave, he had been eyeing them carefully, but apparently satisfied that they would not attempt anything foolhardy, he had relaxed his gaze. They had been quick to pick up on this, and were now making preparations to desert - in a way.

"Slow your pace - fall to the back of the troops, but quietly," Torgall ordered in soft tones. They nodded, allowing the other warriors to steadily bypass them. It was slow, as they had to do so without arousing attention, but with only a slight change in speed, the other warriors had soon begun to outpace them.

"Wait until there's a thick cluster of trees," he said, still keeping his eyes on Akinos' retreating back. The others gave him a sideways glance of acknowledgement. They continued to follow along with the other warriors, all the while marching along with the rest. However, after a few minutes, the forest thickened briefly - just as Torgall had hoped.

"We have to let Akinos move around the trees," Torgall said, slowing his pace yet further. Other warriors still passed them, sparing them barely a glance. Before long they were at the end of the others, and Akinos was well out of sight.

"Now!" he hissed, and at his command they sprinted into the thick forest, the sounds of marching fading into the background. The ran as fast as they could, their feet thudding against the forest floor, their heavy breathing piercing the forest silence. Torgall was half-expecting Akinos to leap out from behind a tree, waving his warblade and bellowing that they were deserting, commiting treason, that they would be slain for this dishonour...

But of course, he did not. They had already put a great deal of distance between themselves and the reinforcements, and no other orcs followed their trail. Confident that they would not be missed - at least, not for some time - Torgall focused his thoughts on the Scourge outpost Valnok had described; its location, the defenders, and of course, Torgus being their prisoner. The thought of his captured friend drove him on, and the others ran alongside him silently, his resolve reflected in their faces.

As they continued to run north, the changes from Ashenvale and the northern forests once more became apparent. The twisted and gnarled trees started to show, the earth became cracked and dead beneath their feet. They had only had a brief chance to appreciate Ashenvale's forboding beauty, having barely been in the forest again for long, and having to return to the corrupted forests brought wrinkled noses and looks of disgust. However, their purpose for being here far outweighed having to be in the presence of dying trees.

They stopped repeatedly for brief respites, ever wary of potential Scourge or wildlife. They had seen what horrors the plague had wrought on the wolves and bears of the land, and even the owls had been aggressive of late. More than once, a wolf leapt out of the shadows at them, half-blind with pain and fury, trying to distract itself from its own anguish by inflicting it on others. These lone wanderers had been easily disposed of, but it disturbed them - the plague truly spread death and corruption wherever it touched.

It was approaching mid afternoon when they neared the area that had been described to them. Abruptly, however, Sapph and Greshka both came to a halt, each raising a hand. Torgall reluctantly came to a stop, and Fenris and Kunasha joined them, frowning slightly. The elf and orc were both standing stock still, squinting slightly, their eyes narrowed, and listening hard. Torgall looked around, unable to tell what they were searching for, but long since resigned to the fact that their senses were far more acute than his.

And then, the silence of the forest was broken by a flapping of wings. They dived aside inscinctively - dragons? Gargoyles? The strange winged beasts the night elves rode?

Instead, a wyvern swooped out of the sky amongst them. Torgall recognized it and its rider immediately, his heart sinking - it was Bristlefur and Valnok. A moment later and the remainder of his windriders had landed as well, their wyverns growling slightly. The orcs held their spears ready, and Torgall realized that they had likely been given orders to slay them for dissent. Valnok was not carrying a spear like his fellow riders, Torgus having taken it during the battle with the frostwyrm - Torgall still had his mace. Nonetheless, Bristlefur was equally as deadly.

"So," Valnok said, eyeing them through his steel helm, "Akinos was right. You deserted the Horde to try and rescue your friend."

Around him, the others rose, their hands on their weapons but not actually drawing them. Torgall gave them a sideways glance, silently ordering them not to do anything foolhardy, but tensed all the same. Before he could answer, however, Valnok had dismounted and was approaching him.

"We've been ordered to bring you back. You will fight in battle against the Scourge, then you will be charged accordingly."

Torgall gripped his axe tightly, ready to fight if need be.

"However... I have a different story," said Valnok, and Torgall paused. "I leave you here. You go on, I return. And I tell Akinos I saw you being overwhelmed in battle by the Scourge, trying to rescue your friend."

Torgall raised an eyebrow. Was Valnok speaking truthfully?

"What do you wish for in return?" he asked after several moments of silence. Valnok regarded him carefully.

"Nothing," he finally replied. "I think what you're doing is a noble thing, choosing not to abandon a friend to a fate worse than death. Akinos means well, but he is stubborn and utterly devoted to the warchief - he follows his orders to the letter without considering the alternatives. So sometimes it's necessary for others to... take command, as it were."

As he spoke, he returned to Bristlefur and re-seated himself on the wyvern. His other windriders were staring at him, but said nothing.

"Fight well - your friend needs you," he said. Torgall nodded.

"Thankyou - for this," Torgall said. Valnok smiled.

"May your axe arm be strong," he replied, before slapping Bristlefur on the flank and taking flight. His windriders followed.

"Valnok Windrager is honourable indeed," rumbled Fenris, watching the windriders depart over the horizon.

"Yes..." Torgall said slowly, before recalling the task at hand. Motioning to the others to follow, he led them further northward. The near presence of the Scourge was evident now - the corruption seemed deeper here, and the plague had deeply affected the land. The ground was slightly muddy with thick, green ichor that gave off an eerie glow. They crept silently through the trees, listening for ambushes, but the forests remained silent. Before long, they had reached a particularly dense line of trees. One by one, they peered through them, and each gave a small gasp of horror.

This part of the forest had been thoroughly cleared, and a few pyramidal-shaped structures had been erected within. Ghouls and zombies shambled about, and there was an abomination standing guard as well. What truly appaled them, however, was a strange pit in the centre of the outpost, surrounded by three skull-shaped braziers that burned with jade fires. At the head of this altar-like assembly was a human dressed in long, shadowy robes - the one Valnok had described.

And next to him, bound and barely concious, was Torgus.

They stared at this gathering - it seemed the cultist was making some kind of speech to the assembled Scourge.

"Our army of the dead shall march across this wretched land!" he cried, his voice carrying clearly. "We shall cleanse the foul stench of life off the face of this planet, eradicating all that stand against us! We take their mightiest defenders, those who would defy our master, and imbue their power into our own!"

Torgall felt a chill run down his spine as the human spoke, but forced himself to remain calm. He faced the others and said, "We have to get in and out. Kill any that stand in your way. I'll go straight for the human and take him out - but we must move quickly. The frostwyrm could very easily be nearby."

"And if it _is_ nearby?" whispered Greshka. Torgall grimaced.

"Then Valnok will be right, won't he?" he replied. Greshka shook her head at the lack of planning but fell silent as the human continued speaking.

"When we slay their defenders, their power joins us! We raise them in undeath, and the strength they wielded in life becomes one with us! Beginning with this orc-" He kicked Torgus' barely moving form, "-I shall demonstrate the wrath of the Scourge!"

"NO!"

Torgall bellowed in rage as he leapt into the clearing. The human stared at him, alarmed, but the undead felt no such surprise - already the ghouls were advancing. Even as he watched, several of the spider creatures emerged from the earth, claws raised, but at the same time his companions joined him. Greshka and Sapph burst from the undergrowth, firing several arrows each, and a handful of ghouls and zombies crumpled. Torgall and Fenris charged forward, the latter barreling into skeletons and sending bones flying, either with his totem or simply utilizing his massive bulk, while Torgall weaved throughout the undead, hacking and slashing. Kunasha remained behind Sapph and Greshka, murmuring the same incantation she used against the night elves.

As the breeze kicked in once more, Torgall leapt over several zombies, landed heavily on a cultist and brought his axe down. The splatter of blood reinvigorated him, set his blood pounding - it reminded him what it truly meant to be an orc. Brimming with new energy, he gave a second bellow that caused even the undead to falter, before engaging in earnest. Shambling corpses fell, their sluggish movements no match for heavy strikes that severed limb from body. Fenris was not too far from him, swinging his mighty totem with enough force to lift the Scourge off their feet.

Before long, Kunasha's wind spell had kicked into a full windstorm, buffeting the Scourge about. Unable to reach Torgall, the Scourge were unable to stop the orc as he moved unhindered to the altar. However, as he approached, the human raised a hand, energy wreathing around it, and fired a bolt of darkness - it caught him square in the chest. He doubled over, breathing heavily, seeing the cultist approach.

"Well, well," he said, grinning at the fallen orc, "you _will_ make a fine minion, particularly to fight alongside your friend here..." Torgus groaned weakly, and the human raised his hands, more energy springing into life. But as he prepared to cast the spell, Torgall imagined himself as a rotting, fetid corpse, trying to kill his friends, destroying the world that he had grown so accustomed to...

The thought of becoming the horrors that he fought enraged him, and with a snarl, he leapt up, pushing aside the pain of the magical attack. The human's eyes widened in shock and fear as the warrior bore down on him - he let out a pathetic shriek as Torgall's axe bit deep into his side, spraying blood outwards. The human collapsed on the edge of the pit, gasping in pain, his fingers fumbling uselssly to stop the flow of blood. Torgall snorted in disgust before running to his companion.

"Torgus!" he shouted, "Torgus, can you hear me?!"

His friend looked terrible: he was an extremely pale shade of green, and a slight amount of saliva - discoloured, no less - trickled from the corner of his mouth. At one point he lifted an eyelid, and the eyeball was unfocused, staring almost into the back of his head. It was also very, very bloodshot. Torgus' breathing was ragged and light, and his chest only rose slightly. As he shook his friend, he ripped at the ropes until they fell away. As they did so, Torgus' eyes finally fluttered open. He stared, half-shocked, half-horrified, at the scene before him.

"Torgus, come on!" he cried, still shaking the older orc roughly. Torgus still stared, transfixed, behind Torgall. After a moment, he murmured, "F... fur..."

"What?" Torgall said - was he delirious?

"Furb... furbolgs... furbolgs..." Torgus said weakly, raising a quivering arm. Torgall stared at him, before looking over his shoulder.

He did a double take.

Furbolgs had indeed swarmed the area, and were snarling and growling, viciously swinging at the Scourge. Torgall had been too focused on Torgus to hear them. He frowned - these furbolgs looked different, however. Their fur was matted, dirty, and even patchy, revealing red raw flesh beneath. They were also crazed, frenzied, attacking anything in range - including Torgall's companions. It was clear that these were not of Meilosh's tribe, or if they were, they had been corrupted, no doubt by the Blight. Even as he watched, Torgall's friends retreated towards he and Torgus; the furbolgs kept the Scourge at bay enough for them to retreat.

"We have to get out of here!" Greshka panted, helping Torgall heave Torgus to his feet, "These furbolgs are insane! If the Scourge don't kill us, they certainly will!"

"Torgus!" Torgall yelled, trying to get his friend to wake up properly, "We _have_ to get moving! Come _on_!"

"Allow me," Kunasha said softly, gently resting a paw on Torgus' cheek. Under her murmured instruction, her healing magic steadily revitalized the grizzled orc. Torgall waited tensely, very much aware that the Scourge and furbolgs were too close for comfort. Indeed, more than once a ghoul or furbolg would attempt to attack them, but on these occasions they were easily beaten back. If a number of them decided to focus on them at once, however...

Fortunately, after a minute or so of Kunasha's magic, Torgus' eyes finally opened fully. He gave a ragged gasp before straightening up and seeing them properly.

"Somehow I knew you'd come get me," he said in a hoarse voice. He surveyed the chaos around them. "Managed to bring some of our furry friends with you, huh?"

"Not quite," Torgall said, both relieved that Torgus was finally awake, and frustrated that it had taken so long, "they'll come after us if we don't move!"

As if to accentuate this point, yet another furbolg made for the group - Fenris caught it in the chest with a heavy strike from his paw, sending it toppling. The sight surprised Torgus enough to allow him to be alert to his fullest, at least relative to his ordeal.

"Come on," he growled, "I know a place... Might be safe, or might not... but anywhere's better than here..."

He stood with a slight limp, but his face was determined. Torgall handed him his mace, and Torgus nodded his thanks. Slowly, and with a certain degree of unsteadiness, the older orc led the group away from the battling undead and furbolgs, and towards uncertain safety.


	26. Ally of my Allies

**Chapter 26: Ally of my Allies  
**

"You're sure this is the right path?"

"Well, not exactly - they only described it."

"...right."

Greshka raised an eyebrow at Torgus' reply, shaking her head slightly. The older orc explained that the Scourge reported a large domain of furbolgs to the northeast that would provide an ample amount of potential undead warriors. As it turned out, however, the gates to this veritable fortress were sealed tight, and the furbolgs defending it were savage in their defense - the Scourge had thus far failed to breach their defenses, though this was in part to most of their standing forces being in the south.

What piqued Torgus' interest, however, was that the description of this 'fortress' bore striking resemblance to Timbermaw Hold. And so that was where they had set out.

During the travel, Torgus had described what he had been put through. The frostwyrm had taken them directly to the Scourge camp, where he had attempted to fight them back with Valnok's spear - he had been swiftly overwhelmed, as the windrider leader had described. Disarmed and beaten, that was when the human - Nonnak, Torgus said he was called - had arrived.

And then the true pain had begun. They did not use simple tools such as blades and hammers to rend his skin or break his bones - no, the Scourge had far more 'sophisticated' methods of torture, or so Nonnak put it. He had inflicted curse after curse upon the helpless orc, causing incredible amounts of pain to wrack his body. Some other cruel spells sapped his strength and energy, leaving him fatigued and weak. At other times he was subjected to various concoctions that forced gruelling sicknesses upon him; vomiting, lightheadedness, hallucinations, nausea, alterations to his body temperature and other maladies. Overall, the ordeal had been greatly taxing.

On more than one occasion, he had simply fallen unconcious, but when that happened Nonnak simply cast a spell that forced him back to waking. After an hour or two of this torture, however, Nonnak began discussing what he described as a 'new, powerful ritual' with his underlings. From what Torgus had gleaned, the ritual would absorb the strength and life energies of the unfortunate victim into gemstones crafted by the Scourge, which could then be tapped at will by the holder to provide restorative effects, or increases in power. This would slay the captive, leaving them a corpse to be raised in undeath, but effectively meaning that life energies would not be wasted in the process.

Torgus was, of course, going to be the test victim for this new ritual. From what Nonnak had mentioned, it involved daggers and blood - lots of blood. Effectively, Torgus' blood would be allowed to seep into the pit, allowing Nonnak to absorb its strength. They would not allow him a clean death though, and he would be made to simply lie there and steadily die of blood loss. Having been subject to torture, poison and other horrible acts, Torgus lacked any strength to protest. His friends' arrival had been most timely.

Since his rescue, Torgus' strength had begun to return, in thanks mostly to Kunasha's healing magic. She had been able to purge most of the poisons from his system, and with Fenris' help, helped rid him of the diseases plaguing his body. He was able to move steadily now, and carry his weapon with little effort. Nonetheless, he was careful not to over-exert himself, as Nonnak's magic still left him slightly fatigued.

"Do you think those furbolgs that attacked were from the Timbermaw?" Torgall asked. Torgus shrugged.

"I doubt it - the Scourge has been unable to break through to them, from what Nonnak was saying," he replied. "Been causing them a bit of frustration - apparently that was the task he had been left with, and he was getting more and more agitated that he would be unable to complete it before his master returned - I think he said he was called Archimonde, whoever that is. My guess is that he was going to use my lifeforce to empower himself to try and take the Hold."

Torgall snorted. "Good luck with that - that place is so huge, his handful of undead would have no chance of taking it."

Torgus nodded. "Indeed - even with my added life energies, I strongly doubted Nonnak would have been able to get far."

"And now he'll get nowhere - we've seen to that - though not without the rather timely intervention of a pack of crazed furbolgs," said Greshka, and they grinned.

As they continued in a north-easterly direction, they noticed that the terrain became more hilly and rugged. To their side, they could easily see the massive tree that stood before the tranquil glade that the Horde forces led by Akinos had been camped by - Torgall wondered how he had been unable to see it from Winterspring, though it had been misty at such a height. He now realized that Timbermaw Hold likely spread and weaved underneath the mountain that this gigantic tree rested upon. The only problem would be finding the way in.

* * *

"Do... they... ever... give... _up?!_" Yulgash snarled, gesturing forcefully at a gargoyle screeching towards him - it burst into a writhing ball of flames.

"They are relentless - they do not need energy or sustenance," Lucethious said.

"That was rhetoric, Lucethious," snapped Yulgash through gritted teeth. Beside him, Belpep channeled demonic energy into his body to help sustain his spells, but it was not enough - the constant spellcasting was weary, and taxed him greatly. Unlike the Scourge, he _did_ need rest. They had been battling all day with little in the way of respite; the magi were allowed to periodically rotate, but the meagre reprieve they were allowed barely lasted a quarter of an hour before they were once more thrown back into the fray.

"The reinforcements should arrive... soon," said Lucethious in a strained voice; not unlike his younger companion, his strength, too, was waning. A moment later they all dived in different directions to avoid a splattering of blood from a carcass thrown by a distant meat wagon. Immediately in retaliation, Jaina Proudmoore pointed her staff towards it, focusing her energies; a bolt of energy sheathed in crackling lightning shot out like a missile, careening into the siege engine, whereupon it exploded in a cloud of dust and charred metal. The magister nodded, satisfied with her attack, but it was a weary nod - she, too, was beginning to show signs of exhaustion from the constant battling.

"Well they'd better get here- wait, what are those?" blurted Yulgash, pointing skyward. Lucethious followed his gaze and saw several windriders circling - he instantly recognized the lead rider as the one who brought them reports of the reinforcements' progress. His heart leapt slightly - perhaps he brought good tidings?

The lead rider gestured to his fellows, and immediately they began swooping and helping thin out the Scourge. He then began circling slowly, searcing for someone - Lucethious assumed it would be the warchief. He noticed that the rider did not carry his weapon; this was odd, and could possibly not bode well. After several moments however, the rider gave up searching for Thrall amongst the throng of battlers, and instead flew towards the magisters - specifically, Jaina Proudmoore. She looked enquiringly up at him as he landed his wyvern, nearly knocking an archer off the wall.

"Regroup your warriors," he said, grinning slightly, "the Horde rises!"

Immediately, they all looked straight to the trees. At first they saw nothing, merely more ghouls or other Scourge emerging from the undergrowth. After a few minutes, however, they stopped coming. Another minute, and several cultists ran out, fleeing toward their brethren at the battle as fast as they could. Suddenly, several of them were felled by a number of arrows or spears to the back.

And then the Horde appeared.

At first, the wolfriders burst from the forest's edge, warblades raised and swinging wildly. They charged right into the thick of battle, screaming warcries and carving through the Scourge like wheat; their wolves barreled into the undead, sending zombies, ghouls and bones flying, or sinking their razor fangs into necromancers and cultists.

Shortly thereafter, a great battlecry went up, and orc after orc came streaming out of the trees - grunts sprinted into the back line of Scourge, cutting down every reanimated corpse in their way. Behind them, archers and headhunters rained arrows and spears down, felling unsuspecting Scourge who had not realized the sudden change in battle. Shamans stood near the archers, empowering their allies with an almost overpowering lust for blood. One abomination attempted to retaliate, but was suddenly blocked by a massive sword wielded by an orc who seemingly appeared out of thin air - a blink of an eye later and that same warblade ripped through the rotting flesh, rending the abomination nearly in two.

After the abomination, several gargoyles swooped down to intervene, but found themselves blocked by Valnok's windriders. The wyverns they rode screeched and roared in fury, slashing savagely at their batlike adversaries. Revitalized by this lifting sight, Lucethious unleashed a volley of arcane bolts, blasting a number of Scourge on the ground, before raining a frigid blizzard down upon the shambling corpses. Nearby, Yulgash was also smiling and shouting his incantations with renewed vigour, incinerating the invaders with gusto.

He grinned to himself - it looked like they would win through after all...

* * *

It was falling towards night before they finally reached what was unmistakeably the entrance to the Hold from this part of the forest - a massive stone and wooden structure in the shape of an open bear's jaw encircled the tunnel's entrance. Torgall had spent most of their search informing Fenris, Kunasha and Sapph of his, Torgus and Greshka's short time with Meilosh and his brethren - Timbermaw Hold, what they had learnt of the furbolgs, and anything else that could be useful.

Currently, the tunnel was barred with thick, heavy wooden doors, but there were a number of furbolgs standing outside. They were not unlike those seen at the Azshara entrance, armoured in wooden and leather plates and carrying huge maces and hammers. A pair of smaller furbolgs were also with them, donning ceremonial clothing and carrying staves.

"Shamans," Fenris said quietly, and Torgall looked at him.

"Can you communicate with them at all?" he asked; by what Torgus had described, it sounded as though the furbolgs were in no mood for diplomacy with others, and more likely concerned with defending their own. To his relief, the tauren nodded.

"We do not speak the same language, but there is a common tongue between our races, so to speak," he explained. "I will at least be able to communicate with the shamans."

"Well, whatever works," said Torgall, shrugging. Fenris nodded, and they rose as a group, moving towards the furbolgs slowly, so as not to provoke them. The guards narrowed their eyes as they approached, weapons slightly raised, but did little more than that aside from growl menacingly. However, they mostly watched Fenris, particularly the shamans.

Fenris strode forwards, totem held forth but not in an aggressive manner. The shamans were watching him curiously, almost appraisingly, and he planted the totem on the dirt path so that it stood upright. He next ran his paw up and down the carvings engraved upon the wood, then traced the pattern that the bones made. They began to glow softly. Torgall watched, awed, as shafts of smoky light emerged from the bones, swirling around the totem before merging together into one glowing mass. The cloud shone a bright white before taking on a brilliant blue hue. A moment later, they coalesced... a bushy tail grew from one end of the cloud, and then one, two, three, four legs sprouted earthward. A snout emerged from the opposite end, coupled with ears and eyes that, even made of smoke, held a sharp cunning.

The electric blue spirit of Awakeeahmenalo touched the ground softly before them.

Even in spirit form, the wolf gave a low growl, though it echoed slightly in the still air around them. Torgall looked to and fro between the wolf and Fenris, but the shaman paid him no heed, instead staring only at his furbolg counterparts. Together, they waved their staves and similarly conjured up animals - the first summoned an enormous owl, the second a panther. Torgall realized that they, too, must have gone through a hunting rite.

Once the furbolgs' spirit companions had taken form, the spirit of Awakeeahmenalo began growling in soft tones, with the occasional bark or yelp. Similarly, the furbolgs' spirit companions twittered and hooted, and growled and hissed. Through their common shamanistic knowledge, the two separate races were communicating.

This went on for several minutes while Fenris' companions stood and hovered several feet away, half-transfixed and half-anxious. Similarly, the furbolg guards watched their brethren interestedly, as though waiting to see what they had to say. Once the shamans had finished communing, they dispelled their respective spirit companions. The furbolgs immediately turned to the guards, and one of them growled something in fairly low tones, pointing towards Timbermaw Hold. The guard nodded respectfully and approached the huge doors, thudding a heavy paw against them. They creaked open. Torgall made to follow, but Fenris thrust out his arm, blocking his path - Torgall glanced at him, but he only shook his head slightly.

"What did you say to them?" he muttered.

"I told them of this Meilosh that you've spoken to," he explained, "and I think they may have believed me... or, they're sending for reinforcements to execute us where we stand."

Torgall stared at him.

"What? Just be ready to run on the word 'go'," Fenris said, shrugging. Torgall shook his head exasperatedly, but at the very least the guards weren't trying to kill them... yet.

The minutes passed in silence, puncuated either by the heavy breathing and occasional low growl from the remaining guards, else by the impatient and somewhat tense shuffling of Torgall and his friends. Eventually the gates creaked once more, and they all stared half-expectant and half-apprehensively at them. At first they only saw two of the large guards pushing the heavy gates open, but then Torgall saw a familiar white furbolg that could only be Meilosh.

Meilosh stood still for a few moments, staring at the assembled guards questioningly. He moved forwards, looking somewhat curious, before catching sight of Torgall, Torgus and Greshka - his face split into a toothy grin. He ambled up to them, pulling them each into a crushing hug in turn.

"You left me with the goblins!" he said, his rough, cheery voice tempered slightly with a growl. "Where did you go?"

"We had to return to our allies swiftly," Torgall replied, somewhat apologetically. "We were told you would take some time to recover."

"Yes... they informed me that you had left some time before I awoke," said Meilosh, nodding sagely. "And I see you have brought friends!" he added, spotting Fenris, Kunasha and Sapph. "Plainswalkers, and... moon child...?" He stared confusedly at Sapph, apparently uncertain as to what to make of her.

"This is Fenris, chieftain of the Direhoof tribe, and his mate Kunasha," Torgall explained, and they nodded in turn, "and this is Sapph, a ranger of the high elf people."

Meilosh stared at her for several moments, frowning slightly, before saying to them all, "Then I welcome you, friends of friends, to Timbermaw Hold."

He gestured towards the tunnel, bidding them to enter. They nodded their thanks, following him into the Hold. Behind them, the guards shut the heavy gates once more.

"It is good to see you again," Meilosh said abruptly, smiling slightly at the orcs. "I was wondering if we would encounter one another once more."

"And to you," replied Torgall, "though I confess myself-?"

"Surprised?" finished the furbolg with a grin. "I told you furbolgs are quick learners. We've watched your people in the forests, hunting the dark ones, and listened... we've seen paleskins as well, look similar to your elf friend, but bigger. We've learnt your languages, but soon the darkness set in and turned some of our people... we withdrew to the safety of our Hold."

Torgall nodded - no doubt the furbolgs felt the corruption of the land and chose to flee it.

"So," said Meilosh, his growls echoing off the walls, "what brings you to my people?"

"I think you know the answer to that," Torgall replied darkly. Meilosh nodded.

"Yes... the dark ones spread quickly, and threaten to overwhelm us. All of us," he added ominously. They glanced at one another, and he continued, "We know not where they came from, but they have great power... they will destroy my people, your people, your allies, the moon children, _everything_."

"Surely you're exaggerating," said Greshka, raising an eyebrow. Meilosh shook his head.

"My people have seen the threat, and it will consume us all. We merely await the inevitable," he said sadly.

"Surely there must be a way to defeat them," Fenris said, not without a little skepticism.

"Truly? Do you propose to raise an army as great as theirs?" asked Meilosh; the question was not sarcastic, but honest. Fenris shook his head, allowing Torgall to answer.

"My people - the orcs - and our allies, the Darkspear trolls, and now the tauren, have joined under my warchief's banner; we are the Horde," he explained. "Similarly, the humans, or paleskins as you called them, and their allies, the dwarves and high elves, form the Alliance. Our races used to hate each other; we went to war with one another. But we have seen this threat and put aside our differences to combat it."

Meilosh listened, frowing slightly but choosing not to interrupt.

"We now prepare to take the fight to them," Torgall continued. "They are demons - the Burning Legion, and they have undead minions - the Scourge. They seek to destroy this land, what we hope to make our new home - your home," he added, and Meilosh nodded. "We will not stand by and allow them to destroy us. We stand as one, we fight as one, and we shall defeat them."

Meilosh was still frowning, and he said, "But these dark ones - demons, undead, they are many. And powerful. How can you hope-?"

"Because we know that together, our strength is greater than theirs," growled Torgus, "they can throw what they like at us, but we will stand strong, for we are true warriors!" He let out a bellow which rumbled loudly throughout the tunnels.

"However, we cannot afford to remain divded in this conflict," said Kunasha in a soft voice. "The night elves continue to attack our people, despite the greater threat, and there are other races that would not lend us their aid; trolls, quillboar... even your people."

"So, you would have us fight?" Meilosh asked, picking up on the point quickly.

"Know this," Sapph interjected suddenly, "the Scourge are soulless, mindless monsters. They do not tire, they do not sleep, they do not need to eat or drink. They can continue to fight were no mortal could not." Her eyes narrowed. "But they still fall. Hit them hard enough and they won't get up, just like any other opponent. They can be defeated."

"It would do both of our races a great deal of good if we could come away from this meeting as allies," Torgall said encouragingly. Meilosh regarded him with an appraising stare.

"While I would willingly follow you and yours into battle, my people will not be so easily swayed," he said finally. "I can bring this matter to them, and perhaps we will be roused to fight. But you must know, they have lost their spirit, seeing our lands destroyed, our people driven to madness, and the dead rising to fight us... I cannot guarantee you allies."

"I understand," said Torgall heavily - it was the most he could hope for. "I admit, this is more than I expected - we came seeking refuge, not allies. But you must tell your people, Meilosh. Tell them that this evil can be defeated, but only by working together. They will not be beaten if you remain hidden away in an underground fortress."

Meilosh was not looking at him, but staring down the tunnel. He glanced to the side, where a few furbolgs walked past to a large hall ahead. The sight seemed to faze him, and he stood for a moment lost in thought. When Torgall cleared his throat, however, he shook his head, coming out of the reverie.

"I will do what I can to persuade my brethren," he said, "and know that if they can be roused, then the Timbermaw will fight with fang and claw alongside you - but I guarantee nothing."

"You wish to protect your own," said Fenris sagely, and Meilosh nodded. "Then come with us. Bring some of your brethren, and they will see our might firsthand. Perhaps that will convince your people to fight alongside us."

Meilosh stared at Fenris with a new look in his eyes - was it hope?

"I agree with Fenris," Greshka said abruptly, "come with us, and we will show you that these fiends can be beaten."

Again, Meilosh stared about the tunnels, and the furbolgs that passed him. Torgall realized with a jolt that he wished to fight and die for his home, that he was not willing to stand idly by while demons and undead ravaged his people and his lands.

"Come with us," he urged. Meilosh turned to face him, and Torgall saw the furbolg's eyes were bright with determination.

"Then we go - show my people."


	27. A Destiny of Flame and Sorrow, part 1

**Chapter 27: A Destiny of Flame and Sorrow, part 1**

It was evening. Lucethious sat, patiently waiting outside the door for his acknowledgement. Having been adequetely treated after the battle for wounds and any signs of sickness, he had been discharged to see to his duties. Almost immediately, he had been requested to be seen at the main keep to be debriefed, and so was now waiting to be bidden to enter.

With the arrival of the Horde reinforcements, the Scourge siege had been utterly crushed. Caught between two battling fronts, the undead were beset on both sides by the unified advancing front, and the revitalized and reorganized defenders. Before long they had suffered resounding defeat - the unliving had been dispatched, and a number of cultists and necromancers were able to be captured for questioning.

Yulgash was not quite as lucky - towards the end of the battle, he had been ambushed unaware by a gargoyle. The fiend had sunk its talons deep into his shoulder and lifted him bodily from the ramparts. It was swiftly shot down by the archers, but Yulgash, far from saved, was instead dropped unceremoniously back on top of the wall, where, unbalanced by both the pain and the suddenness of the attack, he had toppled down to the ground below; he was fortunately rescued by a grunt and footman, who dragged his unconcious body back inside.

Yulgash had regained conciousness since Lucethious had been discharged, though he was still in a great deal of pain - the wounds left by the gargoyle were particularly deep, and the healer had mentioned torn muscles and even scraped bone. As such, the young magister was far from healthy, and was remaining in the infirmary with the other wounded soldiers - of which there were many.

Despite the lengthy siege, the death toll was mercifully low. That was not for lack of trying on the Scourge's part, however; a great number of soldiers, Horde and Alliance alike, had been injured during the battle, some critically so. The healers and their apprentices had been working feverishly to tend to everyone, and a number of priests and even shamans, both orcish and tauren, had been recruited to help the fallen. A handful of Darkspear trolls had also offered their skills, but when a pair of their witch doctors were caught taking body parts from those who had not survived, they had been expelled from the infirmary until further notice.

Lucethious himself, despite his lack of injuries barring exhaustion, had been one of the first to be seen through virtue of his nobility. He had requested that they tend to the others first, particularly the heavily injured, but his demands fell on deaf ears. As such he had begrudgingly submitted himself to their scans and surveys and what else, trying to block out the moans of the wounded.

Now, however, he felt slightly more at ease knowing that those who _did_ need aid were receiving it, and was content to await his audience - even if it were the command who had requested his presence, and not the other way around. He had already been sitting for almost half an hour, but he waited without complaint.

The door opened slightly, and he looked up interestedly. Colonel Lorena was there.

"We're ready to debrief you, now," she said in a slightly gruff voice, and Lucethious nodded, following her into the room. Along with her was Lieutenant Davin, one of her subordinates whom had recently been promoted, and a collection of the Horde commanders - Nazgrel, whom Lucethious had learnt was Thrall's advisor, Vol'jin, the chief of the Darkspear trolls, and Cairne Bloodhoof, the wizened old tauren. Strangely, however, both Thrall and Jaina Proudmoore were absent, and Lucethious voiced this mild concern immediately.

"Lady Proudmoore and Thrall are both absent," Lorena replied curtly, "they have left to travel north-"

"Left?" Lucethious repeated blankly, unintentionally cutting off his commander, "But the forest is teeming with the Scourge and Burning Legion! And the night elves-"

"The lady is using her magics to transport them there," said Lorena, cutting him off in turn, "and I've no doubt she and the warchief will return within due course."

"I- very well," said Lucethious, inclining his head slightly, and Lorena nodded before continuing.

"Now, as you know, the current threat has been dealt with - and we sustained minor losses, miraculously. We have been discussing the threat of the Legion, and attempted to ascertain their movements. For example, Lieutenant Davin here led a patrol, including one of the magisters, to scout out a Legion stronghold. Unfortunately, the patrol was wiped out and the mage killed; it was our good fotune that he survived to report the incident to us," she said, striding back and forth. Davin grimaced at her retelling of his disastrous mission, as though wishing to forgot the incident had ever occured.

"What this means," she went on," is that though the Legion apparently withdrew from the siege, they are by no means gone. From the lieutenant's report, it sounds as though the Legion is still out there in force, but planning... something. Cairne will elaborate-"

"And both the lady and the warchief are out there?" Lucethious blurted, "Isn't that rather foolhardy?" Lorena's eyes narrowed.

"Remember you place, magister. You may be a noble but I am still the commander here. The lady and warchief insisted that their mission was of utmost importance, and I will not disobey either of their commands." She stared at him, frowning, and after a few moments he inclined his head a second time.

"As da colonel indicated, we bin talkin' about battle plans," said Vol'jin, taking over,"and we was thinkin' that it be time to take da fight to da Scourge an' Legion."

"Is that a good idea?" Lucethious asked quickly, "So many injured..."

"Not immediately, of course," Cairne rumbled, "but our scouts have reported a buildup of Legion forces in the corrupted forests - the most we know is that they seem to be preparing to stage some form of assault, but what has piqued our interest is that it does not appear to be aimed at us, but instead the sacred tree known by the Kaldorei as the World Tree, Nordrassil." He paused, as though steeling himself to go on. "This tree carries the essence of the land - it is the lifeblood of our home. What is more, an archdemon whom invaded our lands thousands of years ago has returned; and we know his goal. Should he reach the World Tree, all will be lost."

"So you intend to strike at them before they have the chance," said Lucethious slowly, and the old tauren nodded.

"It is clear why we have been besieged by the Scourge now - it was to give the Legion a freer reign to act," said Cairne. "Valnok Windrager's scouts report that it will be some time before the Legion is on the move once more - enough time for us to act."

Lucethious nodded, distracted - his attention had been caught by the mention of Valnok Windrager.

"Erm... Cairne... sir... chieftain..." he said awkwardly; Lorena frowned at him, but the old tauren simply chuckled, raising a paw for the elf to continue, "I believe Valnok Windrager was aware of the whereabouts of a certain orc and his companions - as I recall, he was named Torgall. Would you be able to tell me...?"

"Torgall? Hmm, yes, Valnok mentioned something about him... as did Akinos..." Nazgrel interjected, stomping over to a desk where a pile of papers sat. Biting his lip slightly, the burly orc rummaged through them for several moments before extracting one. "Torgall... Torgall... Ah, yes. Akinos reported that he and a number of his friends - including one of my finest scouts, no less," he added in a growl, "deserted the reinforcements while travelling south. Valnok was sent to retrieve them, but they were last seen being overwhelmed by Scourge. He is currently unaccounted for, and presumed dead."

"Dead?" repeated Lucethious, aghast. Nazgrel nodded sternly.

"Dead - the same he would have received for desertion," he growled threateningly. Lucethious stared at him, the shock leaving him shaken - Torgall, dead? The only orc he had begun to get to know properly... Yulgash would take it particularly hard, no doubt, he had always had faith in the warrior... And what of his other companions; he had seen their troll friend about, along with the mad goblin they had brought from the north...

"But to return to the matter at hand," said Lorena, taking hold of the meeting once more, "Lucethious, you seem to know the magisters best. I want you to organize them as best you can into a force ready to take on the Legion; we'll need them ready within the next three days. That should give them long enough to recover, and us long enough to prepare. Dismissed."

Lucethious nodded, striding from the room. He had his orders now - but first, he felt he would need to give Yulgash the bad news...

* * *

Torgall crouched low, peering through the bushes with narrowed eyes. The elf-demons - or satyrs, according to Fenris and Kunasha - were crawling all over the corrupted glade. Amongst them were a number of the same massive, and apparently sentient - again, going on the word of the two tauren - trees, but these were far different to the one Grom Hellscream had led the Warsong to destroy; they were a sickly purple, with twisted and gnarled branches, and bent trunks. The Legion's taint had befouled the land thoroughly.

As he watched, a pair of satyrs brought a struggling night elf forward. This was the first time they had seen the males of the latter race - they looked not unlike the satyrs, no doubt why Meilosh had called them elf-demons. They did not possess the fur or horns, however, and were dressed in robes that seemed to be woven from leaves and leather. From what little they had seen, their powers were strikingly similar to those of Kunasha's.

The satyrs dragged the helpless elf to one of the same mystic pools that the night elves used, though the waters in this pool were a foul green as opposed to a peaceful sapphire. With little more than a contemptuous sneer, the satyrs tossed the elf into the corrupted waters. For several moments, the elf thrashed about in the waters, kicking and screaming in agony. He clawed at his own skin as it went from purple to pale pink, as fur burst from his arms, legs, thighs, as horns erupted from his head...

The screaming stopped, and though it took mere moments, it felt like an eternity. Torgall had not flinched from this grotesque sight - the scene had replayed itself time and again since their arrival. Meilosh and his ilk, surprisingly, were softer than expected, and tried to block out the terrible transformations in vain, whether by trying to block out the screams by conversing loudly or simply closing their eyes and covering their ears with their paws.

A rustling made him look up, but it was merely Greshka. He opened his mouth to question her, but she shook her head and said, "Hold on, I'm waiting for-"

"-me." They all turned and saw Sapph, too, joining them, her bow slung and claymore in hand - Torgall noticed it had a variety of blood colours splattered atop it.

"What did you find?" he demanded without preamble. Sapph and Greshka glanced at one another, the latter giving a slight nod, indicating for the elf to go first.

"I scouted the night elf and satyr presence in the immediate area and took down a quick map," she said, unfurling a piece of parchment and indicating several crosses she had sketched upon it. "There are satyr camps here and here, and a large night elf base here. The night elves are being led by a warrior - who is blind, no less - with prodigous skill; I saw him single-handedly slay a score of demons. The satyrs, by contrast, seem leaderless and are content to follow the Legion's will; however, they still possess a vicious cunning and great numbers, and so should not be underestimated."

"And Greshka?" Torgall asked, "What of your report?"

"I found two Legion positions further north; one is a fairly fortified encampment, overseen by the pale demon we saw at the siege and who is leading the demon forces here, and the other..." She swallowed, apparently torn between excitement and revulsion. "Torgall... Torgus... the Legion is in possession of... of the Skull of Gul'dan."

Torgall leapt to his feet and Torgus dropped his maul, eyes wide. Sapph, too, looked startled at this revelation, but their other companions merely frowned in confusion.

"You cannot be serious," Torgall said breathlessly, but Greshka nodded.

"It was there, a burning skull emanating vast quantities of demonic magic. It is the Skull that is poisoning the land, not just the plague. It's foul energies seep into the forest, corrupting it, twisting it. That's where there are so many satyrs," she added, gesturing to the nearby glade where yet another unfortunate elf was being thrown into the corrupted waters.

"We cannot pass up such a chance to strike at the Legion," Torgall said immediately, "the Skull must be reclaimed and brought before Thrall; or, at the very least, destroyed."

"But we cannot divert our attention now!" said Fenris, surprised. "We must bring the Timbermaw to our people to show them our might!"

"Fenris," said Torgall, rounding on him with a fierce gaze, "I'm sorry, but you've no idea how important this is - not just to the orcs, but as a key to destroying the Legion. The Skull contains terrible powers which we cannot allow to be unleashed. Should the Legion-"

His rant was drowned out by a savage roar, and the Timbermaw dived in different directions. They reacted instinctively, similarly rolling aside - a number of barbed arrows shot through the air amongst them. Torgall swore - in his fervor, he did not realize his raised voice, and had attracted the attention of the satyrs.

A few furbolgs were hit, and they gave pained roars as the arrows sunk into their exposed fur, bypassing the plated wooden armour - or in some cases, simply piercing right through it. With a furious roar, Torgall rose, bringing his axe to bear. The satyrs fired from the shadows of the trees, but their bulky forms made for easy targets, despite their surprising agility. Torgall felt his axe bite deep and a satyr cry out in pain - he wrenched it loose and kicked the fragile elf-demon to the ground, taking care to trample him as he pursued a new target.

Nearby, Greshka and Sapph had drawn and fired their bows in return, but they did not know the forests as well as the satyrs; they quickly changed in favour of their respective weapons. Greshka crashed through some undergrowth, slashing several times at once satyr; he fell to the ground, bellowing in pain from a number of deep wounds. She then rolled forward, catching a second satyr in the legs, and, with a carefully timed twist and flick of the wrists, drove her blades into the stomach of the falling demon.

Sapph took a stealthier approach, an impressive feat for one carrying such a large weapon. Sneaking up to a satyr preoccupied with trying to get a good shot at a furbolg who was in turn distracted trying to pull free an arrow, she brought the claymore down with tremendous force. The satyr's cry was cut short as the blade ripped through from shoulder to waist, the elven runes glowing their characteristic blue. With a haughty grin, she pulled the blade free before impaling another demon nearby.

Meilosh had forsook his spear that he had used in their travels through Azshara in favour of one of the stone maces that his brethren wielded. Apparently not having forgotten the previous battle with satyrs, he attacked with unbridled ferocity. He swung the heavy weapon into the legs of one satyr - with a resounding crack, the demon fell to the forest floor, bellowing in agony. Meilosh brought the stone hammer down, splattering blood and bone everywhere. Snarling furiously, he leapt for another target.

The satyrs that attacked them were evidently scouts sent to investigate the commotion, that much was clear - before long they had beat them back and were now fighting in the corrupted glade. As Torgall bore down upon one of the darkcasters like the ones they had encountered in Azshara, there was a thundering crash - he looked up, startled, to see furbolgs scattering, a boulder having slammed into the ground near them. As he watched, several of the corrupted trees began unearthing massive boulders and tossing them into the air. A number of satyrs were inadvertedly crushed, but the desired effect was achieved - their offensive was broken.

"Foward!" Torgall bellowed, waving his arm at the trees, "Get close so they can't hit us!"

He had to repeat the command several times to be heard over the din, but before long they were rushing headlong towards the trees. While their gnarled, claw-like branches were large enough to batter several of them aside at once, the attacks were slow and easily avoided. With their intended targets so near to their trunks, they could no longer attack at range for fear of destroying one another, which Torgall dimly considered odd considering they had no qualms about accidentally slaying the satyrs, but reasoned that the trees had overall greater defensive value.

However, that was not to say that it was necessarily a strategically sound decision - satyrs were now swarming their position like a pack of wolves to their prey. Everywhere he looked, Torgall saw his companions fighting no less than three satyrs each, and that was even with Meilosh having brought almost two dozen of his brethren. Fenris in particular was fighting twice that, the half-dozen demons trying to get a strike in. The tauren, however, moved with the grace of the wind, blocking their attacks with his totem and striking back fluidly.

Kunasha came to his aid, summoning her astral powers to blind and stun the satyrs. With such a debilitation on his foes, Fenris quickly overcame the demons and was able to turn his attention to his companions. The nearest in need was Meilosh, who was fighting alongside a pair of his brethren. The tauren charged forward, knocking aside several of the satyrs with both his weapon and overall bulk, before following up his charge with a mighty slam from his totem - shockwaves rippled though the earth, upending the satyrs still standing.

Kunasha, having seen to the safety of her mate, chose to instead assist her other allies. Chanting praise to the Earthmother, her paws glowed their usual green, but this time the glow extended to her entire form until she was illuminated with a vibrant emerald glow. As she spoke the words, her voice grew louder and louder until she shouted the final bit of the incantation, and huge numbers of roots erupted from the earth, ensaring a score of alarmed satyrs. Torgall gaped at the sight, not least of all because he was shocked that even with the plague and demonic corruption, life still thrived beneath the earth.

Fenris, in turn, began to employ natural magic. He too chanted an incantation, this one to the elements, and lightning wreathed around his paws before lancing to a satyr, immolating it; the lightning then arced twice more - the same attack he had used in battle against the Warsong. Again and again he cast this devastating attack until he, Meilosh and the other two furbolgs were surrounded by a pile of charred satyr corpses.

Despite these impressive feats, the satyrs kept coming at them, and the situation became increasingly grim. Moreover, the tauren seemed exhausted by these mighty attacks, and while they still fought with fury, the were unable to employ their magical talents to any great effect. The satyrs, noting this, wasted no time in allowing them no chances to recover.

Torgus, despite his earlier sufferings at the hands of the Scourge, was fighting particularly well, crushing any satyr foolish enough to come near to him - until one of the darkcasters snuck past his defenses and brushed its claw against him, and he doubled over in agony. Torgall recognized the attack immediately - it was the same crippling spell that had been used on him in Azshara. Recalling the horrific pain all too well, Torgall charged through the battling satyrs, furbolgs and past his companions until he was sinking his axe into the warlock, the force of his attack dropping the satyr to its knees before it keeled over, twitching. With a bellow of fury, Torgus rose, bringing his maul down upon the fallen demon.

"Are you all right?" Torgall asked roughly, glaring down at the satyr with disdain.

"Never better," Torgus grunted in reply, shaking his head slightly. "Things don't seem to be going too well for us, do they?"

"You could say that," said Torgall, kicking at a nearby satyr before striking at it with his axe.

"Don't suppose we could call for a retreat?" suggested Torgus, swinging his maul around threateningly before crushing the skull of a satyr. Torgall snorted.

"Won't exactly convey the impression we're trying to make to Meilosh. We still have most of our numbers, there's a chance-"

Again, his words were drowned out, this time by the sound of a heavy release, followed by the deep thrumming of an even heavier object hurtling through the air. Torgall instinctively looked skyward, expecting more boulders, but instead saw a massive three-bladed glaive spinning through the air towards one of the corrupted trees. It slammed into the trunk with impressive force, sinking in deeply; a moment later and two more glaives had careened into the tree with such force that the trunk splintered apart, and it crashed to the forest floor.

All the combatants turned despite themselves in the direction from where these projectiles had been launched, and saw none other than night elves. Torgall clenched his teeth, torn between relief and further stress: on the one hand, they could be saved by this intervention, but on the other, the night elves could very easily turn on _them_ next - unless Meilosh could talk some sense into them...

At the very least, they were cooperating for the time being. As more glaives were loaded into the night elves' ballistae, their archers and warriors charged forward, destroying the outer line of satyrs. Those further in - the ones trying to kill Torgall and his companions - attempted to retaliate, but now found themselves as the outnumbered fighters. One night elf in particular caught Torgall's eye - he wielded two long, double-ended blades and wore simple garments akin to a blademaster, but what drew his attention was the incredible skill and agility this elf fought with; within moments he had several slain satyrs at his feet. It was that moment he stood still that Torgall saw the blindfold covering his eyes, and realized it was the elf commander Greshka spoke of.

As the elves and their corrupted brethren battled, Torgall noticed that they seemed to have forgotten he and his companions entirely - assuming they had even been noticed - and were instead focusing on each other with unbridled ferocity, which struck him with an idea.

"Fall back!" he bellowed, gesturing at the forest, and they surreptitiously fled to the questionable safety of the trees. A few satyrs that noticed their leaving did not hesitate to shoot a few arrows at their backs, and a couple of furbolgs were further injured, but they managed to reach the forest's edge with minimal loss.

"This is your example?" panted Meilosh, wiping some blood off his fur.

"Not the time," Torgall growled through clenched teeth.

"Torgall, this is ridiculous," snapped Kunasha, betraying a hint of anger for the first time, "we fight against innumerable odds, and the night elves do not take kindly to our presence!"

"The Skull is of utmost importance," countered Torgus, "it _has_ to be retrieved!"

"You would sacrifice us all!" Fenris growled. "Let us take Meilosh and his kin to our stronghold and show them the might of the Horde and Alliance; cease this foolish venture!"

Torgall fell silent, doing some quick thinking. They could hear the satyrs fighting and, presumably, losing in the glade. However, they could not afford to leave the Skull in the hands of the Legion...

"Very well," he said finally, "I, Greshka and Torgus will remain here to-"

"And Sapph," interjected the elf; Torgall glanced at her, frowning slightly, but nodded his thanks.

"-to see to the Skull's capture, or destruction." Fenris frowned at him, but did not interrupt, so he continued, "You and Kunasha shall lead Meilosh and his brethern south so that they may see firsthand that the Scourge can be beaten."

The two tauren glanced at one another, and Fenris said, "You are certain of this?"

Torgall nodded, his face still set with determination. The tauren sighed.

"Very well. There are still enough furbolgs to ensure a fairly safe traverse through these forests. I wish you luck with your task, my friend."

"Something tells me we'll need more than luck," Torgall said as he hoisted his axe, before giving a flicker of a smile and adding, "but I appreciate the thought."


	28. A Destiny of Flame and Sorrow, part 2

**Chapter 28: A Destiny of Flame and Sorrow, part 2**

"We're being watched."

Torgall glanced back, gripping his axe slightly tighter.

"Are you certain of that?"

"Definately." Sapph crouched, stock-still, one hand on the forest floor, her eyes slightly narrowed.

"Weapons at the ready-"

"No; they're merely watching..."

Torgall frowned at her.

"You refer to night elves?"

"Yes..."

"Then we should prepare to bat-"

"They've left," she muttered, straightening up. Torgall's frown deepened.

"Are you doing this on purpose?" he asked. She looked at him, returning the frown.

"Of course not, why would I?"

Torgall regarded her for several moments before simply saying, "You can be very strange..."

He shook his head, then jerked it slightly to the side to indicate that they should move on. With Fenris and Kunasha's departure southward with the Timbermaw furbolgs, they had been proceeding cautiously - fortunately, through use of both Greshka and Sapph's exceptional senses, they had avoided several potential confrontations already. As it was, they would each stand a distance apart from Torgall and Torgus, ever on the alert, their ears perked and their eyes swivelling back and forth.

That was not to say that the males had grown complacent, however - Torgall always had his axe in one hand as a precautionary measure, and Torgus, though he still had his maul slung over his back, moved like a lion on the prowl, his huge, hulking form moving with surprising grace.

Not long after Sapph's confusing revelation, Torgall recalled a question he had intended to ask her earlier. He sidled up to her as unassumingly as possible.

"Yes?" she asked in a low voice, not even looking at him, but instead opting to carry out her continuous scan of their surroundings.

"I've been meaning to ask," he started, uncertain how to pose the question, before simply forgoing any subtlety and asking straight out, "how do you know about the Skull of Gul'dan?"

"Oh, I know about a lot of things," she replied simply, still not looking at him. Torgall waited for her to continue before asking, "Can you... elaborate?"

Now she looked at him, her cold blue eyes twinkling slightly. "I know a surprising amount about your people - or at least, enough to surprise you. I know that you were manipulated by warlocks and demons alike in the First and Second Wars; I know about the Blood Curse that ended with the death of Mannoroth; I know about a great deal of your people's history; and of course, I know about Gul'dan and the power his Skull is supposed to possess."

"But... how?" Torgall said weakly - he could scarcely believe that this elf knew such a startling amount about the orcs when sometimes even _they_ didn't know as much!

"It's enough that I know," she said half-dismissively, half-evasively; Torgall got the distinct impression that she felt she had said too much, "and another thing I know is that the Skull in the hands of the Legion is a very dangerous thing. Gul'dan was a powerful warlock, and it would not surprise me-"

"I want an explanation," Torgall interrupted. She raised her eyebrows, and he added firmly, "about how you learnt so much."

She regarded him for several moments before sighing, "I can tell you'll continue to pester me incessently if I do not relent. Very well then - I used to be part of a skilled group of elves called the Farstriders. This organization included rangers, scouts, hunters, but also rogues, thieves, spies and assassins; this was because we worked mostly within the laws of Silvermoon, but also without."

Torgall could hardly see where this was going, nor how it linked to the Skull, but listened raptly all the same.

"I was a rogue and spy within the Farstriders, and during the Second War. My skills at subterfuge were enough to garner the notice of some higher-ranking officials within the Alliance, and throughout the war I was used to infiltrate the Horde. Through a great deal of stealth and caution, and not a little bit of magic, I gained a veritable wealth of knowledge about the orcs and your people's history in general."

She paused, as though pondering her story, though her eyes continued to survey their surroundings.

"Anyway, the war ended, I was rewarded for my services, so on and so forth. I'd had enough of spying and the likes, though, and rejoined the Farstriders, this time as a straight-out ranger. When I received the call to arms from Proudmoore, I brought my cadre of rangers and we joined in the... exodus."

She had chosen the last word carefully, as though she had had difficulty finding the right word to convey her meaning; Torgall had lapsed into silence, contemplating the story he had just been given. It seemed absurd, particularly that a lone elf could have found out so much about the Horde, which was a veritable military force of nature, but nonetheless, he had not been apart of the Horde anyway, so he would have no idea...

Even still, it was as good an explanation as any. Satisfied, or as satisfied as Torgall felt he'd be with the story, he moved away, returning once more to his state of awareness.

* * *

"I'm sorry."

Yulgash sat, head hung and staring at his knees, digesting the information Lucethious had just told him. They sat in awkward silence which lingered for several long moments; Lucethious briefly thought the young human might have been crying, but when Yulgash looked up, his face was quite composed and dry.

"Very well," he said in a steady voice, "this is an unfortunate turn of events, but it cannot be helped. My only regret is we lost several powerful companions."

"You are taking this... well," Lucethious said, somewhat surprised, "if not somewhat coldly."

Yulgash shrugged and said, "We're in a state of open warfare which gets bloodier by the hour, and we're allied with those we spent years warring against. Things change, and we need to remain flexible if we're to change with them."

Lucethious raised an eyebrow, still surprised at the young mage's attitude, but impressed all the same. Yulgash was right - in such dangerous and confusing times, one could hardly afford to wallow in self-pity or cling to memories of the past.

They were currently sitting in the infirmary; Yulgash had, at last, been discharged, though he chose to remain for a short time to allow his shoulder some time to recover. There was a shocking scar from the gargoyle's talons which, fortuantely, was almost completely covered when Yulgash donned his robes. Belpep was with them, having whittled the time away pursuing various texts within the arcane sanctum, but periodically visiting his master, if only to see if the human had died and therefore freeing him, or so the imp had said, lest Yulgash thinks that he "actually cares for him", as he had put it.

"So," said Lucethious, "our next move is to prepare the remaining magisters. I've been put in command of the sanctum to organize the magisters for the upcoming assault against the Legion and Scourge. We must counterattack quickly, so as to stop their advance swiftly."

Yulgash nodded. "What do you need me to do?" he asked.

"Finish your recovery, for starters," the elf replied with a slight smirk, before continuing, "mostly, I need you to back me up in case we get any protest from my abrupt appointed command. Thus far we've mostly taken our orders directly from the officers, but now that there's someone in charge, there might be... opposition."

"Surely that's unlikely to happen," Yulgash said skeptically with a frown. "Isn't this the least likely time that people would question one another's authority? The more organization we have, the better."

"You'd be surprised how irritible and difficult some people can be when they feel feel their power is questioned," explained Lucethious patiently, "something I learnt in my time at Dalaran and... personally. If I have the word of someone behind me already, however, that will lend me a bit of credence."

"Simple enough," said Yulgash, shrugging and getting to his feet. He winced slightly, instinctively gripping his shoulder, but simply steeled himself and gestured for Lucethious to lead the way. With that, the two magisters left, Belpep skipping along behind them.

* * *

As the orcs and their elven companion crept through the defiled forests, Torgall could not supress the feeling that he may very well be leading his friends to their deaths. However, they'd come this far, and he had merely to think of the Skull to renew his resolve. It had actually been Greshka and Torgus who had truly instilled the fervor within him, a fervor which they shared - they had regaled him, so to speak, with stories of Gul'dan's powers throughout the First and Second Wars, and it had been those tales which convinced him of the need to relieve the Skull from the Legion.

Now they were swiftly approaching the Legion camp that Greshka had described, and it was clearer than ever - like when they had battled the Warsong, the sky was now tinged with hellfire, and they could feel the air energized with fel energy. Torgall felt a mix of anxiety and excitement - the opportunity to strike a blow to the Legion while recovering an artifact of import to the orcs was within their grasp.

They approached the camp in silence, peering quietly through the undergrowth. The scene was not dissimilar to what they had seen at the Warsong camp - the ground was cracked and dry, having taken on a reddish hue. Felguards patrolled the area, and a pair of doomguard were standing near an enormous gate. Between the two arches of this gate was a shimmering veil of energy, and every minute or so, a demon, whether felguard, felhound, infernal or otherwise, would step out of this gateway. This, then, was helping bolstering the Legion's forces, albeit slowly, but Torgall had no doubt that there were many others scattered throughout the forest.

And at the centre of this defiled clearing, atop a burning pedestal, was the Skull of Gul'dan. It was much like any orc skull - rounded, but slightly more elongated than a human skull, and also tipped with several sharp fangs. However, it had been grotesquely engorged beyond normal proportions, to the point where it would have had to come from a gargantuan creature such as a dragon. As if to accentuate this point, the skull shimmered and pulsed with fel energy, energy that made Torgall's very skin crawl.

They withdrew from the sight, each thinking hard.

"So," Sapph whispered, "any ideas on how we'll do this?"

"We're at a disadvantage, to say the least," admitted Torgus, "they severely outnumber us, and possess far greater strength."

"There _must_ be a way, there has to be!" said Torgall, almost pleadingly. "We've come this far..."

Torgus shook his head. "I'm afraid it's starting to look the way Fenris and Kunasha described," he muttered grudgingly, "there's no way we'll be able to-"

"Quiet!" Greshka hissed suddenly. They all looked up, alarmed, worried that the Legion had detected their presence, but in answer to their silently unasked question, Greshka merely shook her head forbodingly. Torgall opened his mouth to ask what, then, she had heard, but she shook her head even more vigorously, bidding him not to speak. Instead, she jabbed her finger towards the encampment, indicating they should watch.

They did as she commanded, peering through the bushes once more, but saw nothing. The Legion was in a state of awareness as before, and the occasional demon continued to pass through the gate, but beyond that, nothing. Torgall frowned, but knew that Greshka would not have stopped them for nothing - something must be out there.

That something revealed itself a moment later. As though materializing out of nowhere, the glade was filled with night elves.

The demons gave a roar of fury, with the felguard charging forward. At the same time, the archers toward the back of the night elves let loose a rain of arrows - several of these struck true, piercing the felguards' necks. Some of the panther riders rode into battle as well, their mounts pouncing upon the demons and pinning them to the ground before savaging them with tooth and claw. Similarly, their riders deflected the demons' blows with surprising ease.

However, their element of surprise was short lived. A pair of infernals rushed into the battle, barreling into the front line of night elves, sending several flying, or utterly crushing others. Torgall noticed that as the infernals joined the battle, so too did several of the male night elves. He raised an eyebrow, wondering what such simple spellcasters could do to the lumbering behemoths, but a moment later he felt his jaw drop as their arms and legs grew thicker, their bodies engorged, fur sprouted from their skin, and their heads elongated into snarling jaws - they had all transformed into enormous bears.

As the shapeshifters clashed with the infernals, Torgall noticed the arrival of a distinctive night elf - the same one who was leading the forces against the satyr encampment. One of the doomguard noted his arrival and strode forward to meet the tall elf. The doomguard brought his mammoth claymore down, but the night elf gracefully dodged it before counterattacking with one of his dual-sided blades. However, this was no simple satyr or other minor demon - the doomguard was ready for such a strike, and swiftly parried the blow.

"Now's our chance!" said Torgall, making to move towards the Skull, but he had barely gone two paces before Greshka had seized him around the midriff and pulled him back. He rounded on her, gnashing his teeth.

"_No!_" she hissed, her eyes flashing, "Do you think the demons or elves will not notice us? The demons would kill us without a second thought, and after the Warsong fiasco, the elves would do the same! We'd be killed before we made it halfway to the Skull!"

"We can't just leave it there!" Torgall snarled, "The demons may simply relocate it, or the night elves may capture it!"

"Such an approach would be certain death," growled Torgus, "we must remain here; the time might seem right to you, but look around... death surely awaits you."

Torgall seethed to himself, but did as he was bidden. Despite Torgus and Greshka's assurances to the contrary, he could not see how he would be spotted through the chaos of the battle, but on closer inspection, he realized that two doomguard were still standing protectively near the Skull, and while it was clear they wished to join in the bloodshed, they staunchly remained to guard the demonic artifact.

However, their wish was soon granted. With a ferocious shout, the blindfolded night elf plunged one of his long blades into the exposed gut of the doomguard he was battling, who gave a roar of mingled pain and fury. The elf smiled grimly, though his lips twisted into more of a leer than a proper smile. He wrenched the blade up and out with startling strength, ripping free the blade from the impaled demon, who was thrown several feet into the air before slamming the ground with a resounding thud, ichor splattering everywhere.

The elf commander waded through the thick of battle, slicing a demon here, slashing another there, until he stood before the two doomguard overseeing the Skull. For several long moments, they remained stationary and glared at each other - at least, the elf's brow was furrowed and was now baring his teeth slightly - in silence, apparently oblivious to the sounds of battle around them. Then, as if from some unspoken command, they attacked.

The battle seemed one-sided at first, but it quickly became evident that the night elf was no mere fighter - he fought with one who had honed his skills for many, many years. The first doomguard was swiftly outmaneuvered by his more nimble opponent, who delivered several precise strikes to the demon, who, while not slain outright, gave a furious bellow as ichor bled from the wounds. He whirled about, trying and failing to strike the elf with an enormous waraxe, but again his target simply moved away.

The elf commander then struck at the other demon, this time magically - he outstretched his hand, which erupted into a writhing ball of flame and magic. The magical attack roiled in his palm, pulsing with energy, before flaring outwards and striking the demon on the arm, leaving a huge, raw burn on its leathery skin. The doomguard gave a roar like its partner, its eyes widening in both shock and fury at the effect of the magical attack. It attempted to heft its weapon, this one a polearm, but the injury greatly destabilized its fighting capabilities; the awkward strikes missed their marks by several feet. With such an advantage, the elf pressed his attack, and before long the doomguard was collapsing, ichor bubbling from his throat.

The first doomguard, witnessing his companion's death, gave a snarl and attacked with renewed fury, completely ignoring the damage from its earlier injures. The elf frowned slightly, this time from concentration, as for the first time he was put on the defensive; the demon's unbridled wrath lent it both great strength and stamina, and surprising swiftness, though its attacks went slightly awry from its forceful blows. The elf dodged gracefully back and forth, almost as though dancing, counterattacking occasionally, but otherwise not retaliating.

However, a curious transformation began to take place. As he continued to battle, he began to glow with a pale purple glow, which then became tinged with green, which became steadily stronger until his entire form was illuminated. The doomguard paid no heed to this change, still in a frenzied battle fury, until the elf suddenly leapt several yards back, out of range of the demon's attacks - and with a roar, oustretched his arms and unleashed a magical barrage, but one of _demonic _magic. The doomguard gave a scream of pain and fury as the lethal attack set his very skin aflame, before flaying it from his bones - the skeleton, in turn, erupted into flames and, still standing, was reduced to cinders. The deadly spell had simply obliterated the demon.

Panting slightly, the night elf now approached the pedestal upon which the Skull rested. Torgall tensed; surely this could not end well.

"Now at least the demons will no longer corrupt the voices," the elf said in a low, rough voice, one which was somehow audible despite the battle raging about him. He paused, as though thinking, and then added, "But, if I destroy the Skull and claim its powers as my own, I will become stronger than any of Archimonde's lieutenants."

"Blast it!" Torgall hissed, before saying in a defeated tone, "At least he intends to destroy it."

"Yes... the power should be mine!" the elf dictated, slightly insanely, and Torgall imagined there to be a mad glint in his eyes, were there any. The elf reached forward, grasping the Skull with one hand, whereupon it shrunk to normal proportions, and murmuring something they could not hear. The Skull then glowed with an evil, sickly green light, one which spread to his form. The light grew in intensity before abruptly changing to purple, which then darkened utterly, bathing him in shadows and obscuring his features.

Not, however, the startling transformation that took place. His arms became thicker, as did his legs, which became double-jointed and formed hooves at the ends. Huge wings erupted from his back, not unlike those of a doomguard, and his head enlarged as well, sprouting horns. The transformation was similar to that of an elf to a satyr, but this was an entirely new kind of demon - one which looked far more deadly.

"Now I am complete!" the elf cried in triumph, his voice now deep and reverberating. The demons and his forces had stopped battling completely, staring at him in blatant shock, but he paid them no heed. Rather, he ignored them entirely, striding off into the forests in the direction of the other demon base Greshka had described, the one where the demon commander resided; they had no doubts as to his intention.

"Well," said Sapph after a shocked pause, during which the elves and demons resumed their battle, "I suppose that sorts out that matter... shall we, um, return to the stronghold?"

They nodded, all still rather dazed after this alarming scene, leaving the elves and demons to their battle, satisfied that the Skull had been dealt with... or so they thought.


	29. Ambushed

**Chapter 29: Ambushed  
**

"...and so I'll need everyone's complete cooperation," finished Lucethious, looking around at all the assembled magisters. "It is imperitive we work as a unit, for we are a strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Together we'll form a powerful backbone for the main assault."

There were murmurs of assent, and a few nodded their heads in agreement. Others merely looked bored or interested, but overall there was a fairly encouraging concensus that Lucethious Manadawn would take command of the magi. Throughout the small speech, Yulgash had skulked nearby next to a doorway with Belpep crouching semi-out of sight; ever since the repeated attacks from the Legion and Scourge, the imp had been keeping a low profile, but thus far none had attempted to attack him.

"There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?" said Yulgash with a slight smirk as the other magi returned to their tasks. Lucethious gave a small sight of relief. "Why were you so concerned about people opposing your new command, anyway? You mentioned something about personal experience...?"

Lucethious started slightly before relaxing. He took a deep breath and said, "When I told you about myself, I said I was the Noble of Northdale, correct?" Yulgash nodded, tilting his head to one side enquiringly. "But I never mentioned much about my family, did I?"

"You... said something about taking over the nobility from your parents when they deemed you worthy," Yulgash said slowly, frowning slightly as he tried to remember.

"Quite correct," confirmed the elf, nodding. "What I didn't bother mentioning was the circumstances surrounding my appointment. I... you see, I have a sister. A younger sister by the name Amelia. A human name, yes, I know. Amelia was younger than me by several decades - that's not a great deal in my people's time, of course - and was quite hot-headed. Fiery, a very fierce personality. That's not to say she was unkind, but she was always forthright about her wants and desires. I did not see her much due to my time at Dalaran, but she was my sister; I loved her dearly."

He paused, as though lost in memories, then continued, "Anyway, because I spent a great deal of time at Dalaran, Amelia was utterly convinced that she would inherit the nobility from my parents. I admit, I myself thought similarly, given I was away from Northdale for so long, but we were both wrong. My parents had informed me before I returned that I would be given the nobility, but apparently, whether purposefully or by accident, neglected to inform my sister. I returned to Manadawn Estate a full-fledged mage, and was promptly given the nobility, and Amelia... didn't like that. She was furious, she raged at my parents and myself before storming from the Estate. We never heard from her again."

Again he paused, this time to sigh heavily. Yulgash remained respectfully silent, allowing the elf some time to recollect his thoughts.

"My parents and I spent a great deal of time and money trying to locate her, to try and bring her back and talk some sense into her, but to no avail. She proved resolutely elusive. I heard all manner of rumour of her whereabouts; that she had travelled to Silvermoon and become a ranger, or that she had gone to Lordaeron and joined the court. I never believed any of them, and as far as I'm concerned, Amelia Manadawn is but a memory."

"I'm sorry," said Yulgash quickly, "I shouldn't have pried, I didn't mean-"

"No, don't be," Lucethious said heavily, "you're a good friend, Yulgash, I feel I can talk to you about this. It was before your time, anyway; probably before the time of everyone here," he added, waving his hand about the room. "But there you have it. That's my experience of taking up the mantle of leadership, and some of the hardships that it can bring."

He sighed again, but then looked up and smiled. "But enough of dwelling upon dark and gloomy memories, we have a battle to prepare for. As you yourself told me, things change and we must remain flexible to meet those changes."

Yulgash nodded, and together they joined the other magisters in their preparations.

* * *

"It's getting dark," Greshka commented.

"That could be a good thing," suggested Torgus.

"Indeed," agreed Sapph, nodding. "They may be settling down for the evening."

"Then we double our pace," Torgall said gruffly. "The sooner we find them, the better."

"Mmm... _if_ we find them," said Greshka slyly. Torgall ignored her.

With the Skull of Gul'dan taken care of and the battle clearly left in the hands of the night elves and the Burning Legion, Torgall and his friends had quickly and quietly departed, having no desire to linger any longer. Their new course of action was to re-establish contact with Fenris, Kunasha, Meilosh and the furbolgs, and then return to the Alliance and Horde stronghold, as per the original plan.

The only difficulty, however, was actually _finding_ them.

"We could be going in the entirely wrong direction, you know," Sapph said abruptly. "For all we know they could be over that way." She waved her hand off to the side.

"That's hardly the attitude we need right now, however," Torgall snapped, frowning at her. "I preferred your original suggestion of them not moving further away from us."

"Have it your way, then," she said with a slight grin, and fell silent. Torgall did likewise, once more descending into brooding thoughts. He had led them astray, all for nothing, and now they were all the more vulnerable for it - without the numbers of Meilosh's brethren, nor Fenris and Kunasha's powers, they would be at a significant disadvantage should they encounter a full-sized patrol of demons or undead. Granted, the others had willingly chosen to come, but it was Torgall's insistence that had led them here in the first place.

He was determined, therefore, to make sure they all made it out alive.

One odd thing he had noticed, however, was the strange absence of demons, barring those guarding the Skull of Gul'dan. They had encountered - or avoided - Scourge scouts and stragglers here and there, but the demons had seemingly vanished. Torgall could only conclude that the reinforcement tactic had proven successful, and that the siege had been broken and the demons dispersed, but somehow that didn't seem credible; they all felt a similar feeling of foreboding that told them that the worst was yet to come.

A heavy flapping of wings startled them, and they all drew their weapons, looking for the source of the noise, but it was merely a large owl disappearing into the forest canopy - or that remaining which had survived the corruption. They stood there, tensed, as though expecting an attack, but it became clear that they were quite alone as silence pressed in from all sides.

"Getting jumpy, I see," said Sapph, slinging her claymore over her back.

"You drew your weapon just as readily as the rest of us," Torgus replied, punching her playfully on the arm, though still with enough force to unbalance her given she was of a much lighter build compared to an orc.

"Only because I knew you'd need me to cover all of you if we were ambushed," she scoffed.

"Bah, you elves wouldn't know an ambush if it bit you in the-"

"Enough," Torgall interrupted sternly, "we need to find the others as swiftly as possible, and it will do us no favours to remain in one spot too long; the Scourge could lurk at any shadow. We must remain ever alert."

"Maybe it's just me, but I've not really noticed much of a Legion _or_ Scourge presence," Sapph said nonchalantly, leaning against a tree and frowning slightly.

"Seconded," agreed Greshka.

"Thirded," Torgus said with a nod.

"I agree," said Torgall, "but we must consider that we've still seen Scourge patrols - or as close to, anyway. That alone says they're still out there, somewhere. And the Legion, too; we all saw how many there were at the Skull, so surely there are yet others. We cannot afford to be complacent."

"I know," Sapph said dismissively, "but all the same, you can't deny-"

She fell silent mid-sentence, and Torgall immediately felt the usual sense of apprehension that he had come to assosciate with her and Greshka's silences. In this case, however, her orcish counterpart apparently could not see what she could, and was staring about in confusion. Sapph, meanwhile, had seemingly forgotten completely about their presence, instead reaching slowly for her claymore.

In one fluid movement, she had brought it slashing through the air, the runes flaring brightly. There was a rush of wind, sounding almost like a furious hiss, and the air before them suddenly darkened into a vaguely humanoid shape with a pair of glowing yellow eyes; it had long arms and spikes jutting from the shoulders, though from the waist downward it trailed away into shapeless smoke. The shadowy spirit abruptly coalesced into a ball of solid darkness, dropping to the ground with a surprisingly loud thud.

"A shade," Sapph said, her eyes conveying a sense of urgency, "invisbible spies and scouts of the Scourge. They know we-"

Again, she cut herself short, this time to roll backwards; instinctively, they all did likewise. It was in that moment that the ground buckled and heaved, as though a monstrous creature was burrowing through it. The assumption was half-right - rotting arms and heads erupted from the dessicated earth, pale-purple skinned with wispy hair ranging from green to blue to violet. They all gave cries of shock as reanimated night elves, jaws gaping and hands groping mindlessly, clambered from the earth.

"Torgus, break left!" Torgall barked, "Sapph, Greshka, cut your way through!"

They did as he ordered; Torgus spun to his left, his mace crashing into several corpses, crushing them utterly. Sapph and Greshka drew their blades, hacking a path through the fetid corpses. Torgall did likewise, unslinging his axe from his back and cleaving several of the reanimated bodies in twain, their lifeless husks falling silently to the ground.

However, this was no small patrol of Scourge; there were scores of undead night elves lumbering towards them from all sides, and for every one they cut down, another three rose up from the ground to replace them. Some still carried the tri-blades that the warrior women wielded, others had bows dangling from one arm. Despite these weapons, the mindless corpses simply attempted to bludgeon the orcs and their elven ally to death with their own rotting hands.

"We need to clear a path!" Torgus grunted, splattering oozing ichor everywhere as he brought his maul crushing down onto the head of one zombie. "They'll have us completely surrounded if we don't move!"

Torgall gave a monosyllabic reply of confirmation, unable to spare much breath beyond that, instead expending all his energy trying to keep the undead night elves from overwhelming him. He swung his axe in a huge arc, bisecting three elves with the one swing, but he barely had a chance to catch his breath when another five were upon him!

"There's... too... many!" Greshka cried, whirling her arms like propellors and mangling several of the corpses; she ignored the splatter of foul-smelling ichor, instead far more concerned about simply beating them back. Sapph, on the other hand, was spinning madly, a whirlwind of metal and decaying flesh. With each zombie she felled, the runes on her claymore glowed brighter and brighter.

"That way!" Torgall managed to gasp, at last spotting a break in the tide of zombies. Immediately they moved towards it, but as though commanded from an unseen force, the zombies surged together, starting to block off the gap.

"How do you feel... about a detonation?" shouted Sapph over the groans of the zombies, the clangs and thuds of metal and the squelching of dismembered body parts.

"Deton- what?" Torgall shouted back, bewildered.

"Just- just brace yourselves!" she cried. Torgall spun about, beginning to ask what she was about to do, but already she was lifting her claymore; she plunged it, point first, into the earth. The runes suddenly radiated a blinding blue glow, and Torgall dropped himself to the ground, Greshka and Torgus doing likewise.

Not a moment too soon.

A shattering shockwave erupted from the claymore, a blue-white explosion of pure energy that shredded and ravaged the already mutilated corpses, sending severed limbs and heads flying everywhere. Torgall wrinkled his nose slightly as ichor splattered them all, veritably drenching them in the foul-smelling liquid. As the energy in the air subsided, he straightened up cautiously, surveying the carnage.

Sapph was panting and leaning on her claymore, which was still embedded in the ground. The runes had faded, becoming simple engravings once more. He looked about at the startling damage her attack had wrought; dismembered body parts littered the small clearing, along with puddles of the putrid ichor. He looked down, shaking his head at the stains on his leather armour, as Sapph wrenched her blade free from the earth.

"How... how did you-?" Greshka asked weakly, but Sapph waved her to be silent.

"No time, run, just run!" she gasped, still catching her breath. Torgall raised an eyebrow but nodded in confirmation; they plunged into the undergrowth once more, running as fast as they could away from the overwhelming battle. They had barely travelled a hundred yards, however, when a shuddering brought them to the halt. At first, they thought yet another wave of zombies was going to emerge from beneath them, but they were wrong - rather, a tree was suddenly ripped free from the earth, to reveal an abomination. Torgus cursed colourfully.

"It's like sidestepping a pothole and falling off a bridge, isn't it?" Greshka muttered through gritted teeth; Torgall snorted slightly despite himself. If only to make matters worse, a number of skeletal warriors shuffled out from behind the stitched behemoth, their bones clattering as they raised their swords and shields in preparation to attack.

"Don't suppose you can pull that detonation... thing?" Torgall asked Sapph, though without any real conviction. Unsurprisingly, she shook her head.

"The runes need time to charge, and they charge when the blade is in use," she explained, "that's the cut-down explanation, anyway. I'll tell you more when we get out of this... if we get out of it, anyway."

"Ever the optimist," he remarked, managing to smile in spite of the situation. He was unable to comment further as the Scourge chose that moment to attack. The group's first action was to spread slightly apart, so as not to be barreled over by the abomination. Torgall slammed his axe into the shield of one skeleton, burying the axehead into the metal plate before wrenching it loose, bone arm and all. The skeleton barely gave the loss a half glance before raising its sword, but Torgall struck the skull clean from the reanimated ribs before it had a chance to attack.

Torgus, meanwhile, was spinning wildly, sending bones flying with tremendous force. The attack had a compounding effect - the bones became veritable projectiles, striking other skeletons and shattering them in turn. Sapph and Greshka, by contrast, pranced gracefully around the edge of the battle, nocking and firing with their unerring accuracy, arrows piercing clean through the skulls of the brittle warriors, whereupon they would collapse into piles of bones.

However, the biggest threat still remained - the abomination kept them moving at all times, dodging its clumsy blows or simply attempting to avoid being crushed under its monolithic weight. Worse still, despite their best efforts, the skeletons continued to come at them, whether raising from the earth beneath them or melting forth from the shadows.

And then several things happened at once.

First, snaking roots emerged from the earth, winding their way around several of the skeletons nearest them before pulling the bones out from underneath them, allowing their upper halves to fall to the ground with a clatter. At the same time, several bolts of lightning arced out from the trees, charring a number of the bone warriors and reducing them to charred cinders. During these displays of nature magic, the earth shook and trembled, toppling the unwieldy abomination and causing some of the skeletons to stumble, yet leaving Torgall, Torgus, Greshka and Sapph unharmed; and lastly, a pack of furbolgs, led by none other than Meilosh, burst from the undergrowth, followed closely by Fenris and Kunasha.

With the sudden arrival of these new combatants, the Scourge found themselves beset from all sides, and were quickly pushed on the defensive. The huge stone maces wielded by Meilosh and his brethren crushed the brittle skeletons with ease, grinding the yellowing bones to dust in a single swing. While the Timbermaw set about clearing the skeletal warriors, Fenris and Kunasha converged on the abomination alongside Torgall and his companions.

The lumbering Scourge hulk attempted to rise, but Kunasha shouted words of praise to the Earthmother, and yet more roots burst forth, shackling the thick limbs to the ground. With a mighty effort, it managed to tear its arms free, but not before Torgall and Torgus began hacking and crushing it, Sapph and Greshka piercing it with arrows from afar. Fenris called forth the Spirit of Fire to sear it with lightning, charring the rotted flesh. The abomination gave an awkward swing with one of its cleavers, as though trying to swat one of the battlers aside, but it was easily avoided.

It came to the point where, with a fierce cry of victory, Sapph triumphantly lifted her blade as she had before, plunging it into the abomination's open mouth. The runes lit up for the third time in barely fifteen minutes, though the ensuing blast was far smaller than earlier - but enough to rupture the abomination's head entirely, at which point it finally lay still.

"Do I even want to ask how you found us?" Torgall shouted as he slammed his arm into a skeleton, knocking it apart in a clatter of bones.

"Fight now, explain later!" grunted Fenris, striking a skeleton with his totem with the force of a cannon, causing the bones to explode outwards forcefully.

"Fair enough!" Torgall replied, kicking out the legs from under a skeleton. However, as it was, there was not a great deal of fighting left to do; with the abomination gone and the arrival of their allies, it was not long before they had overwhelmed the Scourge ambush, reducing it to several large piles of bones and an enormous, fetid corpse.

"So," said Torgus, inspecting a skull closely before tossing it aside casually, "exactly _how_ did you know-?"

"The animals of the land prove to be fruitful allies," said Kunasha with a smile, extending her arm - from the trees, an enormous owl emerged and settled down gracefully onto it. The same owl they had seen earlier.

"You mean to tell us that that vulture told you where to find us?" Sapph asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow at the avian.

"An owl," corrected Fenris, "and yes, he told us where you were. We weren't expecting you to be in battle though; it seems we arrived just in time."

"You can say that again," said Greshka, "you didn't even see the number of zombies we had to fight our way through... would have been overwhelmed, too, if she-" She jerked her head in Sapph's direction, "-hadn't pulled some detonation explosion bruahaha."

"Detonation explosion what?" Meilosh repeated blankly.

"Well, it's just a detonation, really," Sapph interjected, "all I did was release the stored energy within my runes... to an... explosive effect," she added with a smirk.

"We can show you the aftermath, if you like," Torgall suggested snidely.

"That won't be necessarily," said Fenris graciously, "I think the bigger matter of import is determining how we explain our absence and newfound allies to the Horde and Alliance."

Silence greeted these words as they all looked at each other and shrugged.

"No one?" Fenris sighed, covering his face with his paw.

"I was... thinking we could cross that bridge when we get there," Torgall suggested half-heartedly. Fenris sighed a second time and shook his head.

"Well, your abrupt decisions to rescue Torgus and then to attempt to retrieve the Skull of Gul'dan didn't end in failure or death, so perhaps this spur-of-the-moment plan might succeed as well... if you can call _not_ doing anything a plan," Fenris said exasperatedly. Torgall grinned.

"Third time lucky, then?" he said, "Let's just do it; we'll camp here for a few hours, recuperate, and then see what fate has in store for us."


	30. Portals

**Chapter 30: Portals**

"That's enough; we have to move."

"Bah, it's hardly breaking light yet..."

"You know we have to go, Torgus."

"I know, I know..."

Torgus' resentful muttering punctuated the silence of Ashenvale as they rose quietly, stretching from the less-than-comfortable handful of hours' rest they had garnered from lying on the rough forest floor. They had not, as Torgall had initially suggested, slept then and there in the corrupted forests, but had opted to travel further south until they were in the relative safety of Ashenvale where, they reasoned, they were less likely to be ambushed by the Scourge or Legion.

That did not make the rest any more comfortable, however. There was little they could use to keep themselves warm, aside from attempting to utilize the undergrowth to shield them from the elements, but moreover, the snoring from Meilosh and his brethren was astounding - they had had little chance to do more than simply doze off into sub-conciousness.

As such, they were not in particularly the highest of spirits when the time for departure arrived. The sun was beginning at last to shine weakly through the canopy, and by their best judgement, that meant that it was dawn - or just after. With the thick branches above, what little light managed to penetrate through the overgrowth made it difficult to tell.

"Still haven't given the plan much thought, right?" asked Sapph snidely, stretching and cracking her back slightly to relieve the stiffness.

"Right," Torgall grunted in response, rolling his head about to release some of the strain that had built up throughout the night.

"Perhaps if we simply explain our absence, we might be given leniency," suggested Kunasha hopefully, "particularly in light of our new allies," she added, gesturing to the furbolgs.

"Unlikely," sighed Greshka, "but worth a shot."

"Probably the only shot we have, at that," said Fenris. They glanced at each other - the situation looked not a little bleak. Moreover, none of them had told Meilosh yet - particularly because they had no idea how to tell him.

As if to accentuate that point, he chose that moment to stomp up to them.

"My kin are ready to continue south to see your alliance," he growled promptly, "lead on."

With no other choice, they grimaced at one another and began to walk, remaining alert and holding their weapons carefully. Despite the lesser presence of undead and demons in these parts of the forests, the ambush caused simply by a lone shade had greatly shaken their faith in their awareness, and as such they had endeavoured to be far more alert. The thought that a mere insubstantial being could summon an entire platoon of Scourge upon them was more than enough to keep them on edge.

If only to break the tense silence, Torgall sidled up to Torgus to ask him a question which had struck him much earlier, but one he had only just remembered...

"Torgus, you said you were a dragonrider in the Dragonmaw clan during the Second War?" he asked.

"I was their champion," he said gruffly, though he couldn't suppress a prideful smile.

"So... you rode dragons a lot, I take?" Torgall said.

"Of course," replied the older orc, carrying himself with an air of importance.

"So then... when we were flying with the windriders... why did you look so unnerved?"

Torgus stiffened, as though an electric shock had surged through him. His mouth seemed to be working furiously, though no sound came out save some incoherent spluttering. Torgall glanced at Greshka, alarmed, but she merely shrugged, her eyes wide.

After several moments of this, Torgus finally managed to regain control. He took a deep breath and asked, "Tell me, what do you know of the great black dragon, Deathwing?"

"Death-who?" Torgall repeated blankly. As soon as he said it, he realized he had either said something very offensive, or very stupid.

Fenris and Kunasha glanced at one another, shocked, and Meilosh too looked rather startled. Greshka was staring at him with a look incredulity on her face, and Sapph had raised a quizzical eyebrow in disbelief. Torgall guessed his comment had been the latter.

"Deathwing the Destroyer is one of the most dire threats to our world," explained Kunasha calmly and obviously as one would explain one and one equals two. "He is the patriarch of his insidious black dragonflight, and wields terrible power. He wages war against those not of his ilk, including the other dragonflights."

"Deathwing is known to my people, as well," added Sapph, "we call him Xaxas; it means chaos, fury, the wrath of the elements unleashed."

"Furthermore, Deathwing's greatest rivals were of the red dragonflight – the same dragons my clan enslaved during the Second War," Torgus continued, "they called him the Black Scourge; a fitting name. He was a dragon of unbelievable fury and terror, the only threat that gave both the Alliance and Horde pause. And I… was unfortunate enough to face him."

Now they were all staring at Torgus, gaping in blatant shock, though Torgall was burning to hear more.

"That move I used against the frostwyrm, it was used in my last flight. A paladin leapt onto the back of my fellow dragonrider's drake and plunged his sword into its skull, killing it almost instantly. I myself continued to battle – a flight of gryphons, along with a wizard – and had things mostly in hand until the Destroyer himself arrived at the battle, engaging my drake in combat."

His eyes glazed over briefly; he seemed to be reliving an almost traumatic memory.

"I realized the battle was lost then and there; I urged my drake to return, but he ignored my commands, choosing to battle the mammoth dragon. To no avail – he was slashed and torn within a minute. Finally he obeyed my orders, and dragged his sorry corpse back to Grim Batol, only to die as he crashed into the mountain upon his return."

Torgus grimaced, wrinkling his nose slightly at the thought.

"Ever since then, my desire to fly practically evaporated. We sought to evacuate, to escape Grim Batol, but as we left, Deathwing returned once more – though by the most remarkable circumstances, was defeated by a number of other dragons. Needless to say, we lost that battle, and the survivors, including myself, were sent to the internment camps. But I expect that answers your question – it was not only the battle that I lost that day."

Again, he pulled a face, but then relaxed and smiled.

"But that is in the past. We face a new war now, and dwelling on battles lost, no matter how humiliating, is hardly the best course of action. We have far more important issues at hand."

"So you've managed to put that behind you?" Torgall asked. Torgus shrugged.

"Mostly; moreover, the lust of battle overcame any past fears. I simply did what I felt I needed to do. That flight on the wyverns was hardly exhilarating to get the old battle fury going. But even still, it is in the past, and there is no sense reliving old memories."

Torgall nodded – the reasoning was sound, and he was glad to know that Torgus was strong-willed enough to not let his past worry him; though on his reflection, he would have not expected that of the grizzled warrior anyway.

A moment later, he tensed, a strange tingling sensation running through his body. At the same time, his muscles felt constricted, almost paralysed, as though his body no longer wished to obey him. In addition, he felt something tugging at him, as though ropes were attempting to pull him away, even though he was perfectly stationary. Something in his sudden shock, perhaps even fear, must have shown in his demeanour, for his companions were suddenly staring at him concernedly.

"Torgall?" asked Greshka uncertainly, frowning at him, "Is there something-?"

The young orc warrior simply _disappeared_.

* * *

Lucethious stood at the top of the stairs leading to the second level of the arcane sanctum, overseeing the preparations for the oncoming battle. Despite the early hours of the morning, there was a flurry of activity below. As Yulgash had predicted, there had been no outcry of insurgency, no sudden mutiny or uprisings; every mage was working to her or his fullest to ensure that their part in the war effort would not be forgotten, with no objections to the elf's appointed command

At the thought of the young mage, Lucethious frowned – he had not actually seen him in some time since their previous conversation.

And as if willed into being, the black haired youth suddenly appeared at the foot of the stairs, Belpep skipping at his heels.

"Lucethious!" he called up, "I was wondering if you could assist me with something?"

Frowning slightly and wondering what he required help with, Lucethious descended, following the human into the same room where he had cast the possession spell earlier. This time, he had set up a new set of magic crystals – an outer circle of glittering emeralds, and an inner circle of shining rubies. Lucethious' frown deepened.

"You realize what this is, I assume?" Yulgash asked promptly.

"A summoning circle…" the elf replied slowly, and the mage-warlock nodded. Lucethious fixed him with a penetrating stare. "Surely you do not intend to summon more-?"

"No, no, I assure you I'm not attempting to summon additional demons here," Yulgash reassured him quickly, then adding in an undertone that the mage could not hear, "though that's not for lack of trying…" Yulgash cleared his throat before continuing, "No, my intent here is far more… benign, if you will. My friend, I intend to summon Torgall and his companions."

"You… what?" said Lucethious blankly, not sure he had heard properly, "I- Yulgash, Torgall and his companions are dead."

"They're _presumed_ dead," Yulgash corrected him brusquely. "I've been reading a book that we've been lucky enough to have here-" He waved his hand at a book lying open on a nearby chair; Lucethious recognized it as _Magic of the Void – Secrets of the Twisting Nether_, open on a page titled _Summoning – Portals Through the Twisting Nether_, "-that says that while portals can be opened to the Nether, they can also be opened _through_ the Nether – forming a magical tunnel, you could say, between one point in reality and another."

"Yulgash, this-" Lucethious started to interrupt.

"The upshot of this," Yulgash continued, raising his voice slightly but otherwise pretending nothing had happened, "is that you can form a small but stable portal through which another person or object can be summoned."

"Yes, but-"

"Therefore," Yulgash concluded in ringing tones, "if I were to open a portal to Torgall's location - in the event he's alive, anyway – he would need but step through and emerge here."

"That's a wonderful theory, Yulgash," said Lucethious, straining to keep his voice from descending into undiluted sarcasm, "except for one tiny little problem – _we don't know where Torgall is_."

"That's easily remedied," Yulgash continued; Lucethious had not yet seen him so confident and sure of himself. The human strode over to a bookshelf, flitting through the various tomes until he removed a particular one – Lucethious saw it was titled _Sypmathy_.

"Are you aware of Khadgar's studies on sympathetic magic?" asked Yulgash.

"Of course," Lucethious replied, bristling slightly – any self-respecting magister should have read Khadgar's works. "Sympathetic magic is an almost residual energy found primarily when a person has handled an object for an extended period of time; Khadgar uses a personal example from when he was at Medivh's tower for the first time, and the Guardian managed to tell what was written within a letter, _and _who wrote it, without actually reading it; Medivh read the sympathetic energy leftover from the writer to divine the text with but a touch."

"Exactly," said Yulgash, almost triumphantly. "Khadgar later goes on to explain not only sympathetic energy, but sympathetic _resonance_ – the residual energy left over from when a being spends time in contact with another being. I intend to use sympathetic resonance to allow the spell to identify Torgall's location for us, effectively opening the portal where he stands."

This proclamation was met with an almost stunned silence.

"Shall I save my sarcastic applause until after you fail, or simply do it ahead of time?" Lucethious asked, failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice this time. Yulgash gave him a withering look.

"Sneer all you like, I've been reading this carefully and thoroughly and I'm almost certain that this will work," he said.

"_Almost_ certain," Lucethious repeated, but Yulgash was not listening, instead pursuing _Secrets of the Twisting Nether_ again.

"It says here that to stabilize a summoning portal – not one for demons, but for other beings – it requires contribution from two other magic-users," Yulgash said. "That's where you come in."

Lucethious sighed heavily – he had an inkling that such a spell was doomed to collapse, and he had heard of the disastrous after-effects of a failed portal spell; namely, the devastating reflux of energy that was released back into the immediate area if the spell failed.

"You're sure you know what you're doing?" he asked, just to be sure.

"Of course; I've summoned something before," Yulgash replied dismissively, jerking his head towards Belpep. "Once I've opened the portal, I'll need you to concentrate on channeling your focus into stabilizing it."

"Very well," the elf replied with a second sigh, awaiting his younger companion to begin the spell. Yulgash stepped into the inner circle, closing his eyes and taking deep, steadying breaths to control his concentration. Lucethious felt the young human gathering and concentrating his power before extending it outwards, channeling it into the surroundings. The air around them began to shimmer with energy, the room almost sparkling with the summoned magic. After several moments, the rubies flared bright pink; Lucethious realized that the energy had been channeled, almost forced, into the gems.

The energy, exposed to the air, was beginning to thrum in low tones. Indeed, the air around the rubies was shimmering more violently, almost as if threatening to ignite. However, Yulgash murmured the tones for the next part of the incantation; the rubies shattered, releasing their energy outward, which was promptly absorbed by the emeralds, and enhancing the humming.

As the human continued his concentration, the shimmering air seemed to focus in front of him, forming a curtain-like veil of concentrated magic. At the same time, he invoked the next part of the incantation, and like the rubies, the emeralds also shattered, the energy spiralling to the air above his head. Yulgash, eyes still closed, reached upwards, as if grasping the energy, then lowered his hands so they were extended before him. The raw, swirling magic floated down towards the wall of shimmering air.

And as it touched, a tear was ripped in front of their very eyes.

It was a dark, swirling purple mass of shadow energies; the edges smoked and curled, as if it were burning. Lucethious recognized it for what it was – a portal into the Nether.

"Now… Lucethious…!" Yulgash grunted, opening his eyes at last as he struggled to maintain the gateway. Lucethious reached forward hesitantly, focusing his magic into the portal; Belpep skipped up and did likewise. As they all watched, the dark purple energies in the centre of the portal began to swirl more violently, churning energy into the room. Lucethious worried that the spell had gone awry, as he predicted – but a moment later, an orc came hurtling out of the gateway and careened, headfirst, into the wall opposite with a sickening crunch.

"Oh, thank the Light!" Yulgash gasped, slumping forward. The rift abruptly vanished, though there was no violent turmoil that accompanied the dissipation of an incomplete portal – the energy had been expended in keeping it open. Lucethious hurried forwards to help him to his feet, and together they cautiously approached the orc.

It was definitely Torgall.

"Blessed… ancestors…" he groaned as they turned him over; a magnificent bruise was blossoming on his forehead.

"Careful now," Lucethious murmured, "that was quite a crash…"

"Who… is that… Lu… Lucethious…?" Torgall managed, opening one eye groggily. A moment later they snapped open, alert, fearful. "The others!" he cried, springing to his feet with such suddenness that they took a step back in surprise, "Where am I? What happened to the others?!"

"Rest easy," said Yulgash, though he couldn't help grin at his success, "you're back at the Alliance and Horde stronghold… though I fear that you may be in a great deal of trouble…"

"I do not have time for this!" Torgall burst out, surprisingly full of energy for one who had been near-concussed from being cannoned headlong into a wall, "The others are still out there!"

"Others? What others?" Lucethious said sharply, "You mean Fenris? Kunasha? Torgus, Greshka, Sapph?"

"Yes, them!" blurted Torgall, nodding furiously, "And… Meilosh, and his… companions… argh, this headache is splitting!" he added, clutching his head and groaning. Lucethious and Yulgash looked at one another and frowned.

"How long can you keep that portal open?" Lucethious asked quietly as Torgall collapsed onto a chair, rubbing his head and cursing colourfully.

"Not too long," Yulgash said uncertainly, before fixing Lucethious with a stare. "I don't suppose you'd object to exercising your newfound power?"

"Yes, I would object," Lucethious replied matter-of-factly, and Yulgash's face fell, to which he added, "but I don't feel I've got a great deal of choice…"

The human brightened considerably and said, "Wonderful. Let's get them in here and set them to work; now you're thinking with portals..."

_Author's note: I'm sorry about the delay on this chapter, I had my wisdom teeth out last week, and the next day our internet started dropping out repeatedly at random intervals; overall it made me in a very irritable mood, and I didn't feel much like writing =\ Anyway, the pain's gone and the net's fixed, so I'm back in business! As a side-note, the line _"Shall I save my sarcastic applause until after you fail, or simply do it ahead of time?" _was actually written by Lucethious himself (and by that I mean the person who made/plays the character); just thought I'd throw that out there as a fun fact =P_


	31. An Unlikely Alliance

**Chapter 31: An Unlikely Alliance**

"Are you okay?" Greshka asked, sitting down beside Torgall. He gave a non-commital grunt.

"I've been better," he replied, wincing slightly as he moved a torn piece of cloth, wrapped around a magical conjured piece of ice by Lucethious, slightly to the side to better spread the cool relief over the bruise that had blossomed on his forehead, "though I feel as though Torgus practiced his mace to face style on me."

"Brutal, but effective," the older warrior grunted with a half-glance towards them.

"You're sure you're fine?" said Yulgash, joining them, his brows knitted in concern, "That was quite the crash you took."

Torgall nodded and managed a weak smile but remained staunchly seated; since his less-than-graceful return to the stronghold, he had been unable to remain upright for particularly long.

As they spoke, another of Meilosh's ilk stepped forth from the portal, growling slightly as it took in its new surroundings. Since Torgall's arrival, they had immediately set to summoning his companions, but once they had summoned all those with whom Yulgash had a sympathetic resonance, they were at a quandry - Meilosh and his companions were still out there somewhere, and they had no means of contacting them.

Lucethious, however, had provided a solution. Firstly, he had gathered the group and, together, had plotted a vague triangulation of their location where they had been at the point of summoning. Utilizing this, Lucethious had opened a portal to that location, and Torgall had returned to explain the situation to Meilosh and his companions.

Armed now with the knowledge of that location, the magisters had been able to begin the summons in earnest, no longer having to rely on Yulgash's sympathetic resonance with his companions. Since then they had been summoning furbolg after furbolg, during which Lucethious and Yulgash had debriefed Torgall and his companions on the Alliance and Horde's plans to assault the Legion and Scourge. The difference, however, was that the magisters were calmly and meticulously opening the portals - the downside to this was that it took somewhat longer for each individual summon, countered somewhat by the number of magisters summoning, but the flipside was that no one came rocketing out of said portals and into walls and furniture.

"Now there only remains the problem of re-joining the Alliance and Horde without being apprehended for deserting," Sapph sighed.

"I've already given that some thought, given the change of circumstances," mumbled Torgall, shifting the ice again. She stared at him, surprised. "We lie low for the time being, and wait for this attack to begin that Lucethious spoke of. With any luck we'll blend in with the assembled forces, and even if we're noticed, I strongly doubt Akinos will take the opportunity to attempt to have us tried in the middle of an assault."

"And you're sure this is the best plan?" she asked, not a little uncertainly, "I mean, you just received a veritable concussion and all..."

"I think it could work," said Kunasha gently, "the reasoning is understandable, and I doubt the knowledge of our 'crime' is particularly widespread; moreover, it's unlikely that Akinos himself is going to come here and discover us."

"But it just seems so simple..." Sapph said.

"Simple can often be quite effective," interjected Lucethious, who had overheard the conversation and joined them, "we're taught at Dalaran that it's usually best to try the simple way first. And going by your current... predicament, I'd say that the simple way is definately the way to go."

Sapph stared at them each in turn before giving another sigh, followed by a half-hearted shrug to concede the point. Satisfied, Lucethious returned to oversee the other magi and their efforts, while Kunasha moved away to Fenris' side. At the same time, Meilosh approached in their stead.

"So this is the joint alliance you speak of?" he growled questioningly. Torgall nodded, and the furbolg sniffed deeply for a moment before continuing, "It is... substantial... but can it stand against the might of the dark ones?"

"Well, if you can bring the Timbermaw as well, that will boost our numbers significantly, and improve our chances greatly," Greshka said.

Meilosh sniffed again and said, "Indeed..."

"We're already mobilizing to take the fight to the enemy," said Yulgash, "and you've only seen a small portion of our forces from here - the base is quite large, and we have a great many fighters at our disposal."

"You've not yet seen some of the powers of our allies, either," added Torgus, "our mage friends here command a variety of arcane magic which will prove invaluable against the Legion and Scourge - and the priests and paladins amongst the humans and their allies wield another magical power entirely that works specifically to destroying demons and undead."

"Effectively," rumbled Fenris, "you've not yet seen the full extent of our powers."

"I still think, however," Meilosh said, "that you will not be able to stand against the dark ones..."

"You'll see," Yulgash replied dismissively, "we'll take the fight to them and turn this battle around; we already broke their siege and we're bouncing back already."

"Your confidence is refreshing, if possibly misplaced," Meilosh growled warningly, "do not let it blind you to your weaknesses..."

Yulgash frowned, apparently thinking of a retort, but the statement was valid - being overconfident in one's abilities could easily lead to disaster.

Before they could continue the conversation, however, one of the Timbermaw furbolgs approached them and growled something in his native tongue to Meilosh, who listened intently, giving alternating nods or growls in affirmation.

"The last of my people have been summoned," he declared, once his companion had finished conversing, and they all glanced at each other, smiling, "so I must ask - what now?"

"We wait," Torgall replied simply, shrugging and then grunting in pain as the simple movement aggravated his already throbbing forehead.

"Hmph... very well," the furbolg said, plodding over to a nearby bench and settling himself upon it. The magisters, meanwhile, were all looking at their new arrivals with some apprehension or curioisty, apparently having not seen such creatures before. Some others were already working on recuperating, clearing their minds with refreshing jugs of chilled water, or replenishing their strength with a hearty meal.

"I'm going to go for a walk," Yulgash declared, "and see what the situation is out there. Lucethious needs to remain behind to oversee the magi, so I'll go see how far off we are from-"

He stopped talking abruptly, standing in the doorway with a look of blatant shock on his face. They all frowned at him, wondering what had suddenly silenced him, but they'd barely opened their mouths to speak when he'd shut the door with a sudden snap and rounded on them.

"_Night elves!_" he hissed, and they all stood up, alarmed, "Here! They're in the base!"

"What?!" cried Greshka, "But- there are no sounds of battle, how-?"

"That's the thing, they're not fighting," Yulgash continued quickly, "they're just standing in the base, not doing anything... They seem to have taken up a formation of some sort..."

"You don't think they've taken the base?" asked Kunasha quietly, "Perhaps they're ensuring a complete seizure of the stronghold?"

"That doesn't make much sense either..." said Yulgash slowly, "There's been no signs of fighting, which we'd have heard regardless... it looks more like we've simply... let them in."

A rather shocked pause greeted these words.

"'Let them in'?" repeated Torgus blankly, "Why would we do that, they've been on our backs this entire campaign!"

"That's what I'm intending to find out," Yulgash said, reopening the door. They all began to protest, but within moments he was gone.

"We'll be retrieving his body riddled with arrows, I assume?" asked Sapph, though she fell silent when they responded simply with glares.

The minutes passed in tense silence while the magisters around them set about their tasks, overseen by Lucethious, apparently having not heard the exchange. Each of them knew they were all thinking the same unvoiced question - why were the night elves here, and how did they even gain access to the stronghold?

However, still no sounds of battle reached their ears. Every now and then one of them would hesitantly stare out the window, as though expecting the warrior women to suddenly attack, but they merely stood stock-still in formation, neither moving nor acknowledging the wary stares they were receiving from the humans, orcs and their allies. Even a number of the panther riders were there, looking just as intimidating as in battle with their huge glaives and ferocious mounts which were, currently, simply growling impatiently.

Eventually, Yulgash returned, a frown crossing his features. They rose as one, all opening their mouths to question him, but he simply shook his head and stared pointedly at Lucethious, jerking his head slightly. The elf returned the frown and followed the young human out, leaving them, if anything, even more confused than before. They sat down disappointedly, neither their anxiety or curiosity sated.

Again, they waited in impatient silence, observing the magisters carrying out their duties with little more than a curious glance at the Timbermaw furbolgs. They were gone significantly longer this time, but eventually Yulgash returned, along with Lucethious, and also accompanied by three night elves - two males and a female. One of the males was of a heavy build with a thick, bushy beard and claw-like gloves - Torgall recognized him as one of the shapechangers who could transform into a bear, the ones they had seen battling the demons for the Skull of Gul'dan.

The other male was of a more slender build; he too had a beard, but it was longer and more neatly trimmed. In addition, he carried a very long staff instead of clawed gloves and had a long, wing-like cloak draped over his shoulders. The female, by contrast, was clad in robes of almost dazzling purest white, and something about her appearance clearly marked her as a spiritual leader akin to the priests in the Alliance - but oddly, she carried one of the tri-blades and had a bow slung over her back as well.

The magi looked up in surprise at these abrupt new arrivals. The male night elves were frowning at the sight of all the assembled spellcasters, but the female's eyes were narrowed in a furious glare. However, at the sight of the furbolgs, they did a blatant double-take before softening. With that, they all conversed quickly in their own tongue before departing.

A startled silence was left in their wake.

"What in the name of the ancestors was _that_ all about?" said Torgus after several moments without speaking.

"The night elves... are our new allies," Lucethious replied with a hint of a smile. Everyone save Meilosh and his brethren stared at him in blank shock.

"Okay..." Greshka said slowly, "Getting past that... what was with those three?"

She tilted her head in the direction of the window, where the night elves were still visible and talking to one another.

"They act as the spellcasters in the night elven ranks," Lucethious explained. "The two males were what they call druids - shapeshifters who command the powers of nature. The female was one of their priestesses - they wield the powers of their moon goddess, though are also surprisingly adept at martial combat, or so I'm told."

"They looked rather... angry," said Fenris, raising an eyebrow. Lucethious chuckled humourlessly.

"That's an understatement - the night elves revile and despise the use of arcane magic, apparently," he said with a wry smile. "The reason those three were brought to us is because they command their respective spellcasters - not unlike myself and these magisters," he added, gesturing at the assembled spellcasters. "They were brought here to see what they would be allied with... whether they like it or not."

"So, the whole point of bringing them here was... to anger them?" Fenris asked; Lucethious shrugged.

"There was a reason - they just happened to not like that reason," he replied. "At least they seemed to like our furry friends here."

"My people have long been allies with the moon children," Meilosh growled, "their strength is substantial. You will find great strength in allying with them."

"And do you think that this might influence your people?" Torgall asked quickly, before giving a grunt of pain and readjusting the ice.

"It is certainly encouraging, I will grant that," he admitted. "Your people, my people and the moon children would form a formidable army to mount against the Legion."

"Now I need to fill you in - there's been a change of plans," said Lucethious, interrupting the conversation, and they all looked at him. "The night elves aren't the only ones here - Thrall and Lady Proudmoore have also returned from their abrupt departure. What they've found is... interesting, and not a little bit unnerving."

Staring at them all to ensure he had their undivided attention - including those of the magisters and furbolgs - he continued, "Our leaders were summoned northward by the mysterious Oracle, as were the leaders of our new allies. The Oracle revealed himself to be Medivh - the Last Guardian of Tirisfal. He explained that he was one who helped bring the orcs to our world - and that he has returned to atone for the sins he has commited."

Pausing to appreciate the stunned silence this caused, Lucethious went on, "Medivh has urged our peoples all to work together to defeat the Legion and Scourge, due to the huge threat they pose to our world. Apparently the archdemon Archimonde is leading the invasion, and is going to assault what is called the World Tree, Nordrassil, in an attempt to drain its powers and see this world burn."

At these words, Meilosh gave a sharp intake of breath that almost passed for a gasp. All of them, including Lucethious, glanced at him and he took the opportunity to say, "The World Tree is the life of our world... if it is destroyed, all is lost!"

Lucethious nodded. "Quite right, or at least in part. Unfortunately, Archimonde has assembled his forces far sooner than we had anticipated - he's preparing his assault even as we speak. Thus, it falls to us to change our strategy from the offensive... to the defensive."

With a wave of his hand, Lucethious conjured up a huge, shimmering image of a lush forest, through which several roads and paths had been cleared. Several large groves had also been created, and at the end of all the paths was an elegant gate, beyond which grew several of the huge, sentient trees that Torgall and his companions had seen several times.

"This is the most direct route leading to the summit of Mount Hyjal, where the World Tree grows," explained Lucethious. "We are going to assemble several bases here, here and here," he said, indicating the three groves. "The Alliance forces are going to form the first base and will be led by Jaina Proudmoore at the base of the path - we will be the first line of defense. Several kilometers up the pass is where the Horde, led by Thrall, will station their forces. Lastly, at the very peak of the summit, the night elves, commanded by their respective leaders, shall form the last line of defense."

With another wave of his hand, Lucethious dispelled the glowing image. He then went on in grim tones, "There are likely to be huge casualties in this upcoming battle - the Legion and Scourge will come at us relentlessly, and it will be all that we can do to delay, and possibly halt, their advance, if only tempoarily. Archimonde himself will be leading the Legion and Scourge armies, and if he joins the battle, death is almost assured. Any questions?"

The magisters were muttering darkly to themselves now, and Torgall felt similar - this seemed like a pointless suicide mission. What use were they going to be if they were simply going to stall the Legion's advance? However, one mage put his hand up.

"Begging your pardon, Lord Manadawn, but is this not simply going to result in all our deaths? Are we merely to form a living barricade to try and delay them reaching this World Tree?"

More muttering, this time in assent to the magister's words. Lucethious gave a slight smile.

"Ah, yes, I forgot to mention that part of the plan. The night elves have devised a way of defeating Archimonde. Effectively, once he does reach the World Tree - which he will, I'm afraid there's no getting around that, he's simply too powerful - their archdruid intends to unleash the power of the land, incinerating both the demon and the World Tree simultaneously. And before you ask, yes, all surviving defenders will be moved to a safe location before the detonation."

"But if the World Tree is destroyed-" began Meilosh.

"We're told that it's a bigger worry if Archimonde absorbs its power," Lucethious interjected dismissively. "The night elves know more about this than I do; than we all do, actually, so it's best to just follow along with what they say."

Another blank silence.

"No other questions?" he asked, staring about at them all. "Very well, very well... Kindly return to your duties before we move out."

With that he moved away, leaving everyone to resume their tasks. Torgall could not help but grimace at the elf, before turning to his companions.

"Have you ever heard of a plan where so many things could go wrong?" he asked.

_Author's note: I'm sorry about the huge delay in this chapter, I was working on it when of all things, the laptop crashed, taking with it the entire chapter and setting me back about a week It didn't come out as long as I intended, either; it almost seems filler, which is salt in wounds I guess. Still, the Battle for Mount Hyjal is approaching, so at least that will bring the story back on track, and hopefully to a nice conclusion!_


	32. Preparations for War

**Chapter 32: Preparations for War**

"The four main platoons will form two defensive lines here and here..."

"Strategic placement of the riflemen-"

"-with any luck we'll be able to co-ordinate our gryphon riders with their windriders and hippogryphs..."

"We'll need several patrols to ensure they don't attempt a flank-"

Torgall wove his way through the Alliance and Horde base, which was now bustling with activity, buzzing with energy. It was significantly more cramped than before, due to the addition of both the night elves and Meilosh's brethren (whom had been mistakenly assumed to be allies of the elves, a concept Torgall and his companions had not questioned for the sake of smooth progression). With the preparations for war being made and finalized, it was easy for he and his friends to blend in and maneuver throughout the base once more without arousing the suspicion of Akinos, so long as they remained mostly separate to appear unassuming.

Not that that was a great problem - Yulgash and Lucethious were still assisting the magisters, Sapph had to inform her rangers of her return, Meilosh was remaining with his ilk, Fenris and Kunasha had their tribe to return to, and Torgall, Torgus and Greshka - well, there was nothing overly-suspicious about three orcs travelling together. Regardless, even if Akinos were to recognize them, Torgall very much doubted the blademaster would stop the preparations merely to apprehend them, not with everything in full-swing - as such, he had little to fear in regards of retribution.

"There are two people we have to meet up with," Torgall said promptly, "so we can strategize with them."

"Rakaji," Torgus and Greshka both said.

"Yes, and Gaznok," he said, nodding. They both stared at him.

"Gaznok? You mean the goblin?" asked Torgus, raising an eyebrow, "Why him?"

"Well, who else would I be referring to?" Torgall said.

"Valnok Windrager; he lied for us so we wouldn't be apprehended," suggested Greshka.

"While I would certainly like to express my gratitude to him, it would be rather risky," Torgall said grudgingly, "he's too closely connected to the upper commanders... Akinos, for starters..." He shook his head. "No, I was hoping to request Gaznok's assistance in the upcoming battle, assuming of course that he hasn't already returned to Everlook."

"Pagh, he's more likely to destroy himself in the process than the demons," Torgus snorted, but shrugged his agreement all the same. They recalled his personal workshop within the main keep, and so that was their destination. Torgall had some reservations, knowing it was dangerously close to where the officers resided, but was banking on the hopes that the preparations for war would hide their presence.

Sure enough, the keep was a flurry of activity, with workers darting left, right and centre, soldiers making trips to the armoury to properly outfit themselves, else confirming battle plans and tactics for the upcoming fight; Torgall and his companions were easily able to move unnoticed through all the commotion.

Torgall recalled how confusing the structure had been when Fenris had previously led them to the goblin, but found it surprisingly easy to remember the right directions to take. Before long, they had reached the workshop where the energetic goblin resided, once more sitting in the centre of his makeshift laboratory, not unlike the previous time they found him here, and again unmoved by all the activity outside.

"Well, well, I was wondering when I'd see you folks again," he squeaked, surveying them with his large eyes. "What can I do you for this time?"

"You can probably guess," Torgall replied. The goblin gave a sigh.

"Yes, yes... in fact, I've already been asked about putting my inventions to use," he said, not without hints of both impatience and contempt, "_despite_ my loud-"

"And shrill, no doubt," Greshka muttered with a smirk.

"-protests, I might add... but alas, no one listens to the goblin," he grumbled resentfully. They rolled their eyes, though he did not notice.

"Yes, well," said Torgall after a moment, "even still, your inventions will prove invaluable in the upcoming battle. Can we count on your assistance?"

"Very well, very well," Gaznok muttered, "I've been working on a new land mine design, perhaps that will prove helpful... and maybe tweak the blueprints for my rocket launcher... now what if I were to modify-" He stopped, seeing they were still there. "What are you all still doing here? I need to work on my designs, shoo, off with you!"

Ears flapping, the energetic goblin herded them from his workshop, shutting the door after them with a snap. They had barely reached the end of the corridor when a resounding _bang_ echoed after them, followed by a shrill cry of, "Argh! Not the pants!"

"Goblins," muttered Torgus exasperatedly, shaking his head.

"Well, at least we've secured his aid," Torgall said reasonably, "assuming he hasn't blown himself up by the time the battle actually starts, I'm sure his contribution will be of value."

"So now what? Rakaji?" asked Greshka. Torgall nodded.

"Yes, and quickly," he replied, "I expect we'll be marching soon..."

They left the keep hurriedly, not wishing to allow any time to be wasted. This time they moved in the direction of the Horde side of the stronghold, keeping an eye out for trolls so that they could find Rakaji quickly.

They found him soon enough, honing his skills with the spears with a number of his other jungle troll brethren; the headhunters all wore looks of concentration as they threw the spears with deadly accuracy, an expression made all the more fearsome by their warpaint, but Rakaji looked oddly sombre. Granted, he still hurled the weapons with enough force to tear clean through the straw target dummies they were aiming for, but his demeanour lacked any real enthusiasm.

Until he caught sight of them.

At first, his eyes widened disbelievingly. After several moments, however, his mouth split into a huge, toothy grin - heavily exacerbated by his tusks - and he cried, "Torgall, mon! Torgus, Greshka! It be yas, mon, it really be yas! Dat elf told me you was all dead but I knew yer weren't, I knew it! You won' believe da stuff dey be sayin' about ya-"

He fell silent at an extremely meaningful look from the three of them, their eyes flashing, as the other headhunters were throwing half-curious, half-suspicious glances their way, but he still grinned widely. They only spoke after the headhunters had turned away to return to their practice.

"It is good to see you again, Rakaji," Torgall rumbled gruffly, clapping the lanky troll on the shoulder. "I expect you've heard of our... exploits."

"I don' believe it, mon," said Rakaji firmly at once, "jus' like I didn' believe dat elf, I knew you never-"

"You're preparing your fellow headhunters for the battle, then?" Greshka cut across him loudly. The troll nodded proudly.

"We'll be leadin' patrols through the forests ta make sure the Legion won't be sneakin' up on us," he said, "and takin' down any of those nasty stone bat critters dey have. Once the Legion makes its advance on the Horde's holdout, we'll return to fight."

"It seems sound," said Torgall fairly, "we may do similar, what with being-" He dropped his voice, "-presumed dead and all; perhaps we, too, will keep an eye on the forests to keep them clear of any straggling Scourge and demons."

"Maybe we'll be bumpin' into yas, den," said Rakaji, giving them another grin.

"What can you tell us that has transpired during our absence?" Torgall asked, staring about the various races rushing about to make preparations, "We were, after all, gone longer than we had initially anticipated..."

Rakaji shrugged. "Not a great deal, mon. At one point, Lady Proudmoore and Warchief Thrall suddenly took leave, though not many people knew they had even gone; around the same time, scouts reported da Legion was assembling for a large-scale assault. We were mobilizing to strike at dem before they could move out, hoping ta end da threat before it had begun, but then da Lady and Warchief returned."

He paused, absently scratching his head and frowning slightly. "That was 'bout a few hours ago. They told us that they had new allies, and changed da plans abruptly; before long we were suddenly told that we were gonna be defendin' dis World Tree." He shrugged as they all looked at one another and continued, "The 'new allies' are da night elves, though I dunno where these bear-men are comin' from."

"A few hours ago...?" muttered Torgus, "That would have been a bit before we arrived, then."

"These bear-men are allies of the night elves, and will be allies to us as well," Torgall explained. "With any luck, they'll convince their brethren to join the fight."

"Good enough for me, then," Rakaji said, shrugging a second time. "I better get back to practicin', we're gonna need all we can get against da Legion..."

They bade him farewell as he turned back to the dummies, to find Sapph striding towards them through the many different races hurrying about in preparation for battle.

"I've been looking all over for you," she said abruptly, and before they had a chance to speak she was rummaging around inside her cloak, before extracting a long, thin and intricate golden chain which she thrust into Torgall's bewildered hands. "I came to give you this."

"Erm... thankyou?" Torgall said, utterly baffled, as he held up the chain; it was meticulously woven, and at the end dangled an equally delicate golden pendant, inlaid with a clear, sparkling sapphire.

"It's an enchanted necklace," she explained without preamble. "I hold its twin; my rangers and I will be scouting the forests on the behalf of the Alliance-"

"Like Rakaji over there?" he asked. She raised an eyebrow before continuing without answering.

"-On the behalf of the Alliance, to keep any Scourge and demons from flanking us. Seeing as everyone thinks you're dead, I think you might do similar until they assault your base proper, at which point I doubt anyone will really care. If you run into trouble, I'll know - the counterpart necklace which I carry will alert me, and I'll be able to lead my rangers to your position; or, at the very least, assist you myself."

"How do I work it?" he asked curiously.

"You don't," she replied, not without a slightly sarcastic smile, "but if you feel pressured or in danger, the necklace will pick it up - it's part of the enchantment. To be honest, I hardly know how it works myself, I'm no magus. Point is, if it detects you in danger - real danger, not simply being in the thick of battle - I'll know. "

"That is very generous - I appreciate the sentiment," Torgall said gratefully, slipping the slender chain around his neck. As soon as he had done it he immediately felt an odd coldness where the metal touched skin, unrelated to the lack of warmth - it was as though the chain radiated a slight chill, even when in contact with a warm presence. Of this, however, Torgall said nothing, unconcerned by whatever it may mean, and instead grateful that Sapph had been thoughtful enough to give him - or them, rather, as they would be fighting together after all - a trinket that could very well save their lives. With that, he felt truly ready to face the dangers ahead.

* * *

Lucethious surveyed the magisters assembled before him; they had cleared up the materials used in the rituals of summoning, and were now making their final preparations before the call to battle went out. He himself had spent the time recuperating, as had the rest of them once the cleanup was complete - they would all need their strength in the battles ahead.

They had had a few more night elves visit them, if only to eye them disdainfully as they dabbled in arcane magic, having no desire to remain in their presence longer than necessary. From what Lucethious had gleaned, the night elves had outlawed the use of such magic hundreds, possibly even thousands of years ago. He couldn't imagine such a lifestyle - but then, he was a high elf, a race that used magic just as readily as, say, the dwarves and gnomes used mechanical contraptions.

The moment he thought of that, he frowned; now that he stopped and thought about it, he hadn't seen any gnomes that had joined on the expedition...

"Lucethious!"

He started, the shrill voice catching him by surprise. He looked down to see Belpep's burning green form at his feet.

"Hm? Yes?" he replied distractedly, "Do you need something? Or does Yulgash-?"

"Yulgash wants to see you, yes," the imp squeaked, fidgeting incessantly as always.

"Very well," he said, gesturing for the imp to lead the way. Belpep skipped off to the room where the summoning rituals had taken place, chattering away to himself in demonic with Lucethious following, his blue robe trailing in their wake. As he closed the door, he saw that Yulgash was bent over a scrying bowl, not unlike when he had informed him of the destruction of the Stromgarde Brigade.

Lucethious paused - that seemed almost like a lifetime ago. The land was hostile to them, the night elves were out for their blood, they were still fighting the orcs, there were no demons and undead-

"Oh, Lucethious," Yulgash said, interrupting the elf's thoughts, "thankyou, Belpep."

"You wanted to see me?" Lucethious asked, pulling himself out of his reverie.

"Yes, I've been studying the Legion, and have found some bits of information you might find useful," the human said, beckoning the older mage over to look within the magical bowl. Lucethious obeyed, gazing into the shimmering waters. They gleaned nothing of particular interest, only swarms of undead milling about, or platoons of demons marching purposefully onward.

"I'm not seeing anything that is necessarily useful," he said, brows slightly knitted. He looked up. "At least, nothing that we've not seen before."

"Wait a moment..." the human said, closing his eyes briefly and muttering an incantation. The waters shone a bright blue, and the images displayed suddenly rushed out of sight; flying over masses of undead, soaring above scores of demons, until it settled on a disturbing skeletal figure - adorned in ornate golden shoulder and head armour, and dressed in intricate but tattered, flowing purple robes, the most unsettling thing about this individual were the strange, heavy chains that constantly twisted about it.

"Who or what is that?" Lucethious murmured in quiet horror.

"That is a lich, by the name of Rage Winterchill," explained Yulgash, "he'll be leading a majority of undead in the attack."

"What do you know about him?" Lucehious asked, still staring at the lich with some trepidation.

"Well, you can't really say I could write a biography about him," replied Yulgash; when Lucethious did not smile, he gave a small cough, cleared his throat and continued, "Yes, Rage Winterchill... erm... so, he's a lich; they're powerful spellcasters of the Scourge, which is one of the reasons he'll be commanding solely Scourge forces. Liches wield the frigid magic of the north, and so we'll be facing a great deal of frost magic when he joins the battle; they also use powerful shadow magic, so we'll need to be prepared for that too."

"Very well..." Lucethious said, "Anything else?"

"One moment." The human closed his eyes a second time, again saying the incantation. As before, the waters shimmered and the image rapidly changed, this time settling on one of the pale demons that looked somewhat like the doomguard, but with curled horns - a dreadlord.

"Anetheron, one of the Nathrezim," said Yulgash, watching the demon gesture forcefully at a regiment of felguard. "He's one of Archimonde's lieutenants, or so I believe - from my scrying, I've discovered that there's supposed to be a different dreadlord commanding, but he's either missing in action or dead; so for all intents and purposes, Anetheron will be filling his role."

"What do we know about dreadlords?" said Lucethious.

"Very little, unfortunately," Yulgash sighed, flicking his wrist slightly; a book on the shelf floated down, opening itself of its own accord and flicking through the pages until it hovered in mid-air displaying a dark picture of man doubled over painfully and clutching his head with a shadowy horned and winged figure standing in the background, a long-fingered and clawed hand extended over the man's head.

"The Nathrezim are supposed to be vampiric demons that feed off the thoughts and emotions of their victims; in a manner of speaking," Yulgash explained, "known for draining the mental strength of their victims until they are mindless husks, Anetheron is particularly adept at this. He wields shadow and demonic powers that will no doubt demoralize our defenders and soldiers. I expect he'll be leading both Scourge and demon alike."

"I see..." Lucethious said slowly, watching the dreadlord carefully; after several moments, he tore his gaze away, feeling slightly drained - merely watching the demon seemed to weaken his resolve.

"Next on the agenda..." said Yulgash, thrice reciting the incantation; the image shifted yet again, until it showed a mammoth, four-legged demon with wings erupting from the spine - which were unlikely to be able to carry the behemoth's weight - and a huge, tusked head. This demon carried an enormous double-ended blade, and had a fiery mane that ran down its neck and back, and thick, leathery skin a well.

"Dare I ask?" said Lucethious.

"Azgalor, second to the pit lord Mannoroth - the pit lord that warchief Thrall and Grom Hellscream slew," Yulgash explained. "Pit lords are brutal war machines for the Legion; most are living battering rams, utilizing their huge bulk to charge through enemy lines. Stronger, older and more cunning pit lords like Azgalor and Mannoroth become quite adept at manipulating destructive demonic magic, however, and can lay waste to opposing forces with a potent combination of magic and brute force."

"Good to know," Lucethious said, closing his eyes in silent horror - they seemed completely over their heads. He took a deep breath before asking, "Anything else?"

"There's one more, barring Archimonde himself," said Yulgash, invoking the incantation a fourth time so that the waters displayed a doomguard of enormous proportions - it was a towering demon, with long tentacles wrapped with bands dangling from his chin and horns as large as cannons. He wielded no weapon, though considering his size - and no doubt magical potency - he likely did not need one. Unlike lesser doomguard, he did not wear much protection save an ornate plate belt, bracers and pauldrons, though again, his girth and magic probably granted him plenty. Overall, he made for an incredibly imposing figure. This demon was surrounded by innumerable demons, and demons alone.

"Kaz'rogal," Yulgash said without preamble, "a doomguard, as you've no doubt guessed, and a very powerful one. There's not much to say about him - he's big, he hits hard, he casts hard, and he leads a plethora of demons. You... don't really need to know much more."

He shrugged. Lucethious watched the gigantic doomguard barking commands to the demons, no doubt in its own harsh tongue. As he watched, he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"So this is what we're up against," he finally said in a heavy, almost hollow voice.

"Why so serious?" Yulgash asked, "Not too long ago you were pretty calm about all this."

"I know, I know... it just seems far more disconcerting once you actually know the identities of the incredibly powerful demons and undead that you're up against," Lucethious replied, managing a small smile.

They sat in silence for several long moments while Belpep fidgeted restlessly. Finally, Lucethious stood, stretching as he did so.

"Suppose we'd better get this to command, then?" he sighed, "Preparations for war, and all..."

"To war, then," Yulgash replied with a grin. Lucethious gave a weary smile, and they left, ready to face the insurmountable threat that threatened not simply their own existence, but that of the entire world.


	33. Twilight of the Gods, part 1

**Chapter 33: Twilight of the Gods, part 1**

The mist was thicker this morning, and taking longer to disperse. Visibility was not as clear as it could be - the cloud cover was hanging obtrusively low. This far up the mountain, little else could be expected, but the previous two days they had had the benefit of being able to see clearly for quite a distance. Granted, they had seen little during those two days beyond the occasional scout, but if the Legion chose to make their advance now, they would be ill-prepared.

It seemed incredible that they had not only outpaced the Legion and Scourge in reaching Mount Hyjal, but had also managed to prepare their fortifications to weather the impending attack. Granted, that had been helped greatly by the night elves, who had assisted a great deal in allowing them access to the mount, such as revealing hidden passageways through the dense forests and seldom-used trails that the Legion or Scourge would be unable to discover.

Even still, Lucethious marvelled at the swfitness in which they had managed to erect their respective fortifications - the Alliance had constructed their base at the base of the trail leading to the peak, and many kilometres up, the Horde had done likewise, roughly halfway up the path. At the top, where the World Tree itself grew, was an ancient grove that the night elves had long since had as a bastion of defense in the case such an event as this occured, but even still they had fortified it further. Neither the Alliance or Horde had been permitted to see what was within - yet - though the elves acknowledged that come the final assault, any survivors who could lift a weapon would be able to enter and make their last stand.

However, very few of them knew what the actual plan entailed. Certainly, they knew what it _was_ - stall Archimonde until he began to ascend the World Tree proper, at which point the Tree's primal fury would be unleashed upon him - but they did not know what was actually going on behind those ancient gates. Indeed, few of the night elves knew, either, most being stationed outside the grove, or away from the World Tree if they were within. Only the night elf leaders and their close officers were aware of the magic going on at the roots of the tree.

He breathed in the cool morning air. Despite the thick mist obscuring their vision, the air was still crisp, clean and sharp, and helped to awaken his senses, for which he was grateful - they would all need to be at their utmost alertness for when the attack came. The Legion would no doubt use their dark magic to try and mask their approach, but that was one of the reasons why Lucethious and the other magisters were here - to help penetrate any magical shrouds they might attempt to use. Nonetheless, the sentries would provide valuable visual aid to report the Legion's advance.

Breathing deeply through his nose, Lucethious closed his eyes, recalling what life was like at Manadawn Estate. It was generally quiet there, but also hectic, managing an entire settlement of humans and elves. Granted, things were even harder here, in this foreign land where almost everything was out to kill, but in what respites they could achieve, there was a certain serenity that the land beheld, and a rugged beauty that he had not seen in Lordaeron or Quel'Thalas - a natural, pure beauty, unsullied by colonisation or magic.

The last, however, did not fully hold true, at least not on this mountain. The air here felt charged, energized with magic, both natural and arcane. He sensed the fount of power came from the mountain peak itself, and though they were not allowed access to the World Tree or its grove, Lucethious could still feel the power that surged forth from the ancient sanctuary. He breathed deeply again, feeling the energy coursing through him, sparks inadvertedly alighting around his hand.

His musings were ended as he heard footsteps approaching, coupled by heavy thuds. He turned, seeing the two night elf leaders entering the Alliance base. The heavy thuds were from that of the enormous tiger that the female leader, Tyrande Whisperwind, was mounted upon, and the footsteps from her male companion, Malfurion Stormrage, who was on foot. They had oddly contrasting appearances - Tyrande was clad in silvery-white robes, coupled with a shining silver breastplate, and carrying an enormous bow. Slung over her back was a glowing blade, one that shone with brilliant white light. She herself seemed to radiate a pale glow, as though even during day, moonlight shone upon her.

Malfurion Stormrage, however, was dressed in much earthier garments. He wore a rugged, heavy cloak of forest green and earthy brown, and a long black robe; he also carried a very long and gnarled wooden staff that thrummed with energy. His eyes shone a bright gold, but perhaps the most startling part of his appearance was the pair of thick antlers that crested his head; they bore no resemblence to the horns of the satyrs, however, instead matching the graceful curves and prongs of a proud stag. Overall, he radiated an aura of natural energy.

Lucethious had barely begun to wonder why the night elves had arrived when a third figure, also mounted, came into sight after them.

Mounted on his large, black wolf, clad in ornate black plate armour and hefting the legendary Doomhammer, warchief Thrall certainly made for both an impressive and imposing sight. His head turned constantly, his blue eyes scanning the surrounding area for threats or danger, though his face bore no aggression, merely a sharp mind at work. As he joined the two night elves, he raised his weapon in an orcish salute; they nodded respectfully in return.

They had barely finished acknowledging each other when Jaina Proudmoore teleported into their midst, panting slightly.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said breathlessly, and continued swiftly, "it's just as we feared, Archimonde and his doomguard are making their way towards the summit! He'll be here any moment."

The others exchanged glances at this revelation, but quickly recovered themselves. Malfurion straightened, taking a deep breath.

"Ten thousand years ago we night elves defeated the Burning Legion," he proclaimed. "Though the rest of the world was shattered, we were left to live out our immortal lives in peace, bound to the World Tree."

He paused, staring at them all impressively, before continuing, "We are its protectors, and through it we were granted immortality and power over nature. Now, at last, it is time we gave that power back."

Tyrande turned to him, concern in her face.

"You realize that we will age as these mortals do. Our powers over nature will wane in time," she said.

"If pride gives us pause, my love, then perhaps we have lived long enough already," he said gently. "I will proceed to the summit and prepare our defenses there. Whatever comes, my love, remember... our bond is eternal."

He left them, teleporting in a flurry of feathers and leaves. Moments later, however, the world shook... they all stumbled, looking about in shock. A resounding voice echoed across the mount.

"Hear me, night elves!" it boomed, "The time for reckoning has come!"

There was no doubt whom the voice belonged to - Thrall, Jaina and Tyrande convened, and Jaina said, with a hint of desparation, "If you can provide our bases with support and keep us from being overwhelmed, Thrall and I will delay Archimonde's ascent!"

"Your plan is a bold one, girl," Tyrande said respectfully. "Perhaps I have misjudged you outlanders. May Elune shine upon you!"

Again, a voice echoed across the mountain, but this one came from the peak - it was Malfurion's.

"To arms, my brethren!" it cried, "To arms, brave orcs and humans! Twilight falls - and the enemy awaits!"

Lucethious cursed inwardly - it seemed that the battle was ready to begin. Even as he watched, footmen, riflemen, archers and knights stormed into the center of their base, ready to fight; at the same time, Thrall urged his wolf up the mount to command his own forces, though Tyrande remained behind. He also saw, with some satisfation, the magisters filing out to await his command, Yulgash and Belpep at their head. They remained behind, however, as the dwarves and humans assembled, knowing that they were far more fragile in the heat of combat.

From the heavy mist, a lone figure suddenly came sprinting up the path. The archers and riflemen readied their weapons, but Jaina signalled for them to hold. As the figure emerged, it was revealed to be a night elven archer, running as fast as she could. She made a beeline straight for Tyrande, and quickly conversed in an urgent whisper - one which Lucethious could hear thanks to his elven senses.

"Priestess Tyrande, the undead have begun to construct a new settlement!" he overheard her say, "It won't be long before they start attacking our allies!"

Tyrande nodded, signalling Jaina of the impending attack. Jaina nodded grimly in return, and began to order her forces into defensive positions. Lucethious watched, feeling a slight shiver go down his spine - so it would begin.

They waited in silent suspense, watching the mists with growing apprehension. Night elven sentries were rarely wrong, so if the Scourge and Legion chose to march, then they were no doubt approaching at this very moment...

For a time, they heard nothing. But after several tense minutes, they could hear a methodical marching... the clanking and shinks of metal moving in coordination, weapons silding back and forth from their sheaths... And slowly, as if out of a nightmare, the mists slowly parted to reveal the horrors within.

The Scourge stood before them in all its unholy glory. At the front were rows upon rows of rotting skeletal warriors, still dressed in chain- and platemail, many of them still clutching the weapons they had been wielding at their death. Others carried no such thing, more than willing to utilize their sharp bone fingers to rend flesh. Amidst them were the slavering ghouls, hunched over and snarling ferally. These certainly needed no weapons, their wicked claws and teeth more than capable of tearing through armour.

Behind these lines stood the necromancers, tall and proud in their evil works, staves raised for combat, the skull helmets cresting their heads yellow in the morning light. Dotted amidst the back lines were abominations, waving their cleavers in joyous preparation for battle, and beside them stood clusters of the spiderlike Nerubians. Towards the back, meat wagons creaked threateningly; overhead, gargoyles circled, their talons eagerly awaiting to rend and tear.

For several heartbeats, the Scourge merely stood, basking in its moment.

And then they charged.

The ground literally shook as skeletons, ghouls and abominations thundered forward, kicking up dirt everywhere, the ground withering and dying as they passed over it; the clattering of metal and bone was almost defeaning. The defenders did not shirk from this sight, however, prepared to meet the challenge.

"Soldiers, attack! For Lordaeron! _FOR THE ALLIANCE!"_ Jaina Proudmoore screamed, raising her staff. It glowed a shockingly bright blue, and she pointed it at the charging Scourge - somewhere within, the ground erupted, sending dirt and undead soldiers flying; several necromancers cried out in alarm as they were lifted into the air before landing amidst the tide of rotting flesh, quickly trampled by their unthinking allies.

The footmen charged forth, meeting the Scourge head-on, cutting into the unliving soldiers. Behind them, riflemen and archers fired repeatedly, felling many of the ghouls and skeletons. Despite this, however, the Scourge's numbers seemed undiminished, and they continued to surge forward.

There was a resounding _bang_ from behind them as the cannons in the towers fired; Scourge scattered as the cannonballs crashed amidst the charging lines. At the same time, dwarven mortar teams began firing their gunpowder weapons; a pair of abominations were hit full-on, bursting into fetid piles of rotting flesh.

Now the Scourge was closer to the base proper, and a second line of footmen rushed out to assist the first, accompanied this time by a score of knights; the mounted warriors charged through the oncoming horde, trampling the corpses with their enormous mounts, else cutting a swathe through the undead armies with huge warblades, waraxes and warhammers.

"May I try something?" Yulgash asked. Lucethious started, not having realized that the human had detached himself from the other magisters. He shrugged.

"By all means," he offered. Yulgash gave him a brief smile before moving into a position for a clean shot. The others watched in interest as the young mage stretched his arms outwards, chanting something inaudible over the sounds of metal on flesh and the cries of the fallen. As he spoke his incantation, flames erupted into life in his hands, snaking and wreathing around his arms. Slowly he brought his arms upward and together, so that the trails of flame conjoined, illuminating his entire form.

Abruptly, he snapped his arms foward, and Lucethious could see the mage's eyes fly open; they were glowing a bright, burning red.

A stream of pure flame gushed forward, _incinerating_ an entire column of Scourge. Lucethious gaped, and he could sense the other magisters were staring at the young mage's startling display in shock as well. Even as they recovered from this incredible feat, Yulgash descended, grinning broadly.

"How-?" was all Lucethious managed weakly.

"The air. Can you not feel it?" Yulgash replied simply, still smiling. "It is charged, it... _empowers_ us. Our magic is amplified here."

Lucethious paused, thinking. Now that he thought about it, his powers did feel stronger... and they must take advantage of that.

"Magisters, attack!" he ordered. They nodded and moved forward as one, Lucethious and Yulgash following, and not a moment too soon - the Scourge, despite Yulgash's attack, was still heavily pressing the defenders.

They assembled atop the walls, out of range of the land-based attackers. Together, they began chanting, hands raised, preparing for a combined magical onslaught.

Still the Scourge came at the defenders, a seemingly neverending tide of rotting flesh and bone. The defenders were being pressed from all sides, and it looked as though they were about to be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

"Now, magisters!" Lucethious cried as the Scourge drew ever closer. At his shouted command, the magisters unleashed their spell as one, releasing a shockwave of pure energy in the midst of the attackers. Necromancers screamed as they were blasted apart, flying in all directions; abominations stared stupidly as the attacked shredded through them, reducing them to piles of sagging, rotted flesh; skeletons and Nerubians shattered, sending bones and limbs skyward.

The explosive attack generated a gap in the attackers that the humans and their allies utilized, quickly reforming ranks. With the pressure relieved off them, they were more able to coordinate their defensive maneuvers. Some footmen took advantage of the reprieve, moving around to the side to flank the Scourge and further taking the pressure off their allies.

Lucethious and his magisters were far from done, however - they all capitalized on the empowered magic they had been granted from the mountain, unleashing devastating attacks on the Scourge. Lucethious himself called down bolts of arcane energy, scorching a number of skeletons and ghouls. Yulgash and Belpep lobbed burning missiles toward the backlines, setting aflame the meat wagons that were pressuring the towers. Showers of ice and rains of fire pummelled the undead; strange rifts of energy ripped others apart.

However, this flamboyant use of magic swiftly attracted the ire of their enemies. Abruptly, a number of the gargoyles swooped down, slashing a handful of the magisters; they crumpled, crying out in pain as red stains spread across their robes. A few riflemen and archers clumsily attempted to fend them off, but the attack was sudden and unpredicable; they were ill-prepared for it. Most of the shots missed by a wide margin, some even accidentally hitting the magisters, further reducing their numbers.

Lucethious cursed - their collective strength diminished significantly even with an individual loss. He glanced to the side and saw Yulgash was particularly focused, teeth bared, at attacking the gargoyles - he no doubt still remembered his earlier injury. With a gesture, one gargoyle burst into flame and plummeted, shrieking, into the Scourge, a fiery missile that quickly set the other nearby attackers alight. He clasped his hands together, then wrenched them apart viciously; another gargoyle was literally ripped in two, the separate halves crushing a handful of skeletons below. He raised his hand, glowing energy forming around it, and pointed it at a third gargoyle - the winged fiend simply _exploded_, showering fragments of rock everywhere.

Lucethious stared at this, not a little bit impressed - certainly, the magic of the mount was no doubt assisting the young human, but he was barely an accomplished apprentice and had dispatched three attackers without breaking a sweat. Yulgash happened to catch his eye and grinned; Lucethious nodded approvingly before returning to the fight himself.

Reaching inside himself, he summoned his own energies and felt the winds bend around his arms, his chest, his whole body. Chanting quietly, blocking out the sounds of battle to allow himself concentration, the elf imagined a raging storm - rain, lightning, sleet, snow... Frost magic, his specialty. He would wield these powers against the unliving. He pushed his energies into those primal elemental forces, willing them to be his weapon - and he unleashed it.

Even though he kept his visual and aural senses shut, he could still feel the change he had wrought. He opened his eyes and saw, not without satisfaction, that a vicious blizzard was cascading down upon the Scourge. A number of the warriors attempted to escape the storm, to little avail; skeletons fell to pieces under the relentless pounding of ice shards the size of fists; necromancers crumpled, doubled over in pain as ice shards pierced their flesh. Even the Nerubians were forced to burrow underground to escape the magical onslaught.

This additional routing of the enemy further allowed the defenders to push back the Scourge, cutting into them with renewed vigour. The magical assistance that Lucethious and his magister allies had provided a much needed break in the attacks. The intial overwhelming onslaught had been broken, allowing them the breathing room to strike back effectively.

And yet, even as they began to cut down the last line of attackers, a chilling, hissing laugh echoed over the battle...

"Ssso... you ssseek to wield the powersss of the north?" it cackled maniacally. The defenders looked nervously to the mists once more; they seemed to darken, become thicker, grow in intensity, until again they parted to reveal a second wave of Scourge - and at the head, a tall, skeletal figure, dressed in tattered purple robes, crested with golden armour and shackled by chains...

"Your hubrisss shall be your undoing!" declared Rage Winterchill, raising a sharp bone finger threateningly. "Sssoldiersss, _attack!_"


	34. Twilight of the Gods, part 2

**Chapter 34: Twilight of the Gods, part 2**

Lucethious swore loudly as he dived off the wall where he and the magisters stood, a massive chunk of ice striking it with the force of a cannon. Several of the others were not as lucky; he heard their brief screams as they were sent flying before striking the ground with lethal force, else landing amidst the battling Scourge and Alliance.

"Yulgash..." he mumbled incoherently, scuffling about in the dirt for several moments - the attack had left him shell-shocked. Abruptly, he remembered there was a battle raging just outside the battlements, and leapt to his feet.

Quickly he scanned his surroundings, trying to assess the damage and the new situation. Several more magisters lay dead from Rage Winterchill's icy blast, the remainders scattered. Some of those were already on their feet and trying to push the Scourge back again; others, like Lucethious, were briefly dazed and trying to recuperate. Eyes flickering, he then saw Yulgash, and hurried over to help the young human to his feet.

"Yulgash! Can you hear me?" he shouted over the sounds of battle. The human groaned slightly, his black hair littered with dirt and grass.

"Yulgash, damn it!" Lucethious snapped impatiently, for a moment losing composure, and shaking him by the shoulders. Yulgash coughed slightly, then opened his eyes.

"Dare I ask what that was?" he said, rubbing his head gingerly.

"Rage Winterchill has joined the battle, as you no doubt saw," Lucethious explained hurriedly. "I think he realized what an effect on the battle we magisters were having, and acted accordingly - a handful more of our number lie dead, the others left disorganized."

"Brilliant," Yulgash muttered brilliantly, before giving a sigh. "Just say the word."

"Very well," said Lucethious, again surveying the current battle. With the new wave of Scourge, the defenders were once more pressed from all angles, though the aid provided by the magi helped keep them at bay. However, with the arrival of Rage Winterchill, things had certainly taken a turn for the worse - the lich raised skeletal and zombie minions from the corpses of the fallen, summoned frigid, icy novas to harm and snare the defenders, else blasted them with shadow magic. He was a threat, and a powerful one at that.

Jaina had apparently noticed that as well. Looking up at one of the cannon towers, she raised a hand commandingly - a horn blew, and from the base, two more waves of footmen and knights each rushed out to join the battle, a score of riflemen and archers alike in tow. Lucethious raised his long eyebrows - he did not realize they had further reinforcements in reserve. Perhaps they had hope after all.

"Wait," Lucethious said suddenly, realizing something was amiss, "where is Belpep? I last saw him with you when you displayed your empowered magic, but now-"

In answer to the elf's question, Yulgash clapped his hands together sharply - in a burst of emerald-green felfire, the imp appeared at their feet.

"He was phase-shifted," Yulgash explained. When Lucethious regarded him with a blank stare, he elaborated, "physically, he was in the Twisting Nether. Invisible to the naked eye. Magically enhanced senses would be able to detect him."

"And yet I couldn't?" Lucethious asked, frowning.

"Because you weren't seeking him directly," said Yulgash, shrugging. "But enough, we've an attack to be fending off. What do you wish-"

"Get down!" Lucethious suddenly cried, throwing himself atop Yulgash; they toppled to the ground as an eldritch blast of shadowy magic cast from a necromancer seared past them, directly where they had been standing heartbeats before. The beam of enery struck a tree on the far side of the base, vapourising it instantly. Snarling, Lucethious leapt up and summoned a combined blast of fire and arcane magic; the offending necromancer shrieked as his very flesh burst into flame, igniting him into a living torch. Panting, Lucethious bade Yulgash to continue speaking.

"Erm... yes," the human said, disconcerted by this sudden turn of events. "What do you need me to do?"

"First we need to regroup what magi are still remaining," Lucethious said, "they're an integral part of our defenses, after all."

"And what are we going to do about Winterchill?" Yulgash asked, staring at the lich with a worried expression on his face.

"I'm hoping that he'll fall to combined firepower, but all the same we cannot discount the threat of the Scourge forces he commands. I'm thinking that we should split our remaining magical might evenly against both targets; if one proves to be a greater threat than the other, then we'll shift our attention accordingly," Lucethious said in a rush. Yulgash nodded.

"As you wish," the human replied, and hurried off with his imp to carry out Lucethious' commands. Lucethious bit his lip nervously - he hoped he hadn't made a terrible decision by dividing their strength - but there was only one way to find out...

* * *

"Another kill for me!" Torgus roared, grinding the skeleton into dust under his maul.

"But how can you slay that which has no life?" Torgall countered, shouting over his shoulder as he swung his axe - the thick, heavy blade cleaved clean through the ghoul's neck, severing the garish head from its rotting body.

"Three more, coming in from the right!" called Greshka. With a graceful twirl and flick of the wrists, she plunged her longblades into the zombie she was battling, before kicking the fetid corpse off her weapons with some disgust. With that, she sprinted athletically towards the new threats - a ghoul and two zombies - nocking her bow as she did so, and letting loose the arrows with unerring aim. One of the zombies was hit dead-on, the arrow piercing deep into its rotted flesh; it fell to the ground, unmovving.

The other zombie was hit less accurately, struck on the shoulder, but with enough force to unbalance it. With a powerful jump, Greshka soared gracefully through the air before landing with the blades sticking in the zombie's chest. Ripping them out with a growl, she came up and around, the longblades bisecting the ghoul; it fell apart into two rotting heaps of flesh.

"Well, that wasn't too difficult," Torgus huffed, leaning on his maul and grinning. Torgall couldn't help smile as well, though in part that was due to Greshka crouching catlike over her fallen enemies, splattered in their reeking green ichor - a true orc warrior.

"And hopefully we'll have done something by stopping these from scouting," he agreed, prodding one of the undead with the tip of his axe.

"Do we have any idea on what the status of the battle is southward?" asked Greshka, and they both shrugged.

"Not without travelling down half the mountaintop - and that would consume far too much valuable Scourge-hunting time," Torgall replied. "I think we'll be put to better use remaining here and preventing the Scourge from setting up a second assault before we've finished preparing our own defences."

"Remind me which area Rakaji is scouting," asked Torgus, frowning.

"He and his headhunters are taking the southern pass, to make sure the Scourge don't take the direct, but otherwise denser, route," recited Greshka. As she spoke, Torgall unfurled a rough map of the battlefield, and she indicated a thick forest that lead north up the mount to the Horde base.

"Fenris has posted longrunners on the eastern main path that leads to our frontal defences; that's the most likely route they'll take if- when they overrun the Alliance defenders," added Torgall, correcting his overly-optimistic remark regarding the humans and their allies; he ran his finger along a wide trail that continued to lead to the peak, and toward the main gates of the Horde base.

"Leaving us to cover the western flank, in case they try to come up behind," grunted Torgus, and they nodded. "Unlikely that they'll try from that direction, too many obstacles; I expect between us and the Alliance scouts, we'll handle any threat that the Scourge poses from trying to ambush our stronghold."

"Any idea what our next target-" Greshka started as Torgall rolled up the map, but her words were drowned out by a shrill cry from above - a windrider sped overhead, with a pack of gargoyles in close pursuit. They watched as the winged combatants circled, the orc trying desparately to fend them off with his trident-like spear, but there were too many.

An orc wearing a heavy spiked, steel helm.

"Something tells me our objective just shifted from 'search and destroy' to 'search and rescue'," Torgall growled, hefting his axe, his companions nodding in agreement.

* * *

It was a stalemate, Lucethious thought as he blasted a trio of skeletons with a cone of freezing winds; their bones froze over immediately, shattering seconds later by the harsh, frigid blast of magic. He glanced up as they fell to sparkling pieces, looking at the battle. Neither side was making much progress - the Scourge still pressed on, attempting to overwhelm the Alliance soldiers, but at the same time the defenders staunchly held them back. Part of this was due to Rage Winterchill's timely retreat when an actual threat opposed him.

Following Lucethious' command, the surviving magisters had split themselves evenly as per his orders. Where Winterchill had once wreaked havoc upon the defenders with impunity, he had suddenly found himself pressed by a plethora of magical attacks. Assaulted by magical storms, balls of flame, blasts of ice, bolts of lightning and arcane barrages, he had enacted a swift and hasty retreat from the battlefield. With his prominent threat removed, along with his command of the Scourge, the defenders were able to properly regroup, aided by the magisters. The only thing driving the Scourge on and continuing to pressure them was the sheer numbers.

Nearby, he saw Yulgash and Belpep still battling furiously. The human was now using almost exclusively fire magic, and while Lucethious was concerned that this might have been a nod to fel magic, Yulgash had assured him he used it primarily due to its effectiveness against the undead, a point which the elf could not argue - the rotting, putrid flesh combusted spectacularly, turning the Scourge's own soldiers into weapons against them; as Yulgash would ignite them, be it a lone warrior or a cluster of zombies, they would stumble about mindlessly, setting fire to their allies and further adding to the chaos.

What truly struck Lucethious - and sickened him, as well - was the sheer numbers of the Scourge. They must have slaughtered thousands upon thousands to have this many unholy soldiers. Elves, humans, dwarves, orcs, trolls... some of the skeletons and zombies were still bore features that allowed their host race to be identified, but many more, he realized, had either been so deformed that they had become ghouls, else stiched together to form the nightmarish abominations.

And then there were the Nerubians, the brittle, mummified crypt fiends. These seemed to be the only Scourge soldiers, aside from the necromancers and the occasional skeletal mage, that had any true inkling of strategy - which bode all the worse for the defenders. Cunning and swift, they would burst forth from the earth, startling a rifleman or archer, before plunging their razor talons into the stunned defender. Their dessicated mummified bodies made them vulnerable to heavy blows, and so they easily were trampled by the knights or simply beaten apart by the footmen, but more often than not they would simply burrow away to safety.

As Lucethious fired off a bolt of frost at an advancing ghoul, barreling it over, he sensed a gathering of magical energies focused at his location. Reacting swiftly, he drew a finger through the air, quickly forming the shape of a glyph. As he completed the motion, the air sparkled in the shape he had drawn, enveloping him in a magical shield - just as a blast of shadow energy careened into him forcefully. Thanks to his quick timing, however, the energies splashed off in different directions, dissipating harmlessly.

He turned to face the new threat, which was, unsurprisingly, a necromancer. Evidently the shadowy mage had attempted to dispose of him with one well-placed strike, but Lucethious was not an experienced magister for nothing - his acute arcane senses had warned him of the impending attack. As it was, he retaliated quickly, summoning a lance of crystalline ice and propelling it forth magically with incredible force - the necromancer waved a hand, causing it to err slightly to the side, instead impaling an unsuspecting Nerubian.

They struck simultaneously this time, Lucethious releasing a globe of arcane energy, the necromancer firing off a flash of darkness. The two magical attacks met in mid-air and exploded in a shower of both glittering and burning sparks, but the spellcasters were far from finished - they immediately followed up with additional attacks. Lucethious summoned a blast of chilling air to slow his opponent, but the necromancer endured the freezing winds before gesturing and muttering a curse.

Immediately, Lucethious felt his body wracked by pain. He doubled over, wheezing, before collasping on all fours. The necromancer moved in closer, a hand raised to keep the curse in place, grinning sadistically as he watched the elf writhe on the ground, apparently oblivious to the battle raging about them and more concerned with sending his adversary to a grisly end.

Half-blinded by pain, Lucethious twitched his fingers and gasped a simple incantation.

The necromancer yelled in surprise and anger as a clump of dirt flew straight into his face - and stuck there. The attack was not intended to cause harm, but rather to distract, a feat which it succeeded. Lucethious gave a sharp intake of breath as the pain was suddenly relieved from his form, allowing him to concentrate once more.

He rose quickly, knowing that the dirt, while attached magically, could be dispelled with but a simple incantation. Sure enough, the necromancer had removed the obstruction, swearing as he did so. However, Lucethious was not about to fall to the deadly curse a second time, and struck before his opponent could attempt the attack once more. Rushing forward, he began to summon a ball of pure magic in his palm. The necromancer, caught off-guard, stumbled backwards, a hesitancy Lucethious utilized - with a shout, he hurled the roiling mass of energy into the dark spellcaster, who gave a brief cry of pain before the breath was knocked out of him as the ball struck him straight in the chest, upon which he was sent flying several feet through the air; he landed out of sight behind a cluster of battling ghouls and footmen.

Panting slightly but otherwise pleased with his success, Lucethious quickly surveyed the battle once more. Still neither side had the advantage, though the defenders did seem to be gaining ground, if only inch by painstaking inch. To his side he could see Yulgash and Belpep, continuing their fiery display. The human was utterly engrossed in his task, incinerating undead with fervor; Belpep, too, seemed quite eager to burn their enemies away. They complemented one another quite well, covering each other's flanks.

A second time, however, Lucethious sensed a gathering of magical energies. He focused quickly, trying to discern the location - it was not aimed at him, but it was nearby, he could sense the attack... a powerful one, no less... it just happened to be focused...

On Yulgash.

"Yulgash! Look out!" he cried, waving his arms to try and gain the human's attention. Yulgash turned, frowning slightly at the sight of the elf shouting and waving his arms madly, but did not seem to get the message. Desparately, Lucethious raised his hands and chanted vocally in a tongue unheard of by those outside Dalaran. As he spoke, a glimmering shield erupted around the human, encasing him in a wall of arcane energy.

A moment later the wall _exploded_.

Sparks and trails of energy showered down upon the combatants, drawing the attention of attacker and defender alike, though barely for a second. Lucethious weaved his way through the battle, trying to get to the point where Yulgash had been attacked, to find the human rubbing his eyes energetically.

"What in all that is holy was _that_?!" he exclaimed, blinking rapidly, "Nearly blinded me!"

"A spell that just saved your life!" Lucethious replied, "Quickly! I think we both know who would use an attack as powerful as that!"

As if to accentuate his words, the air around them took on a distinctive chill. The Alliance soldiers felt it, almost visibly shivering as they fought, while the Scourge seemed reinvigorated by the freezing mists. Coupled with this was a hissing cackle that they all wished they did not have to hear a second time.

"I return, and with me, I bring your doom!" it hissed. They turned to see Rage Winterchill floating forth, a fresh wave of Scourge before him. He gestured forcefully at the defenders, and the undead crashed forth, spilling over the defenders like a tidal wave of rotting flesh.

"We need help! Send your warriors!"

Lucethious turned at Jaina's cry to see her imploring Tyrande. The elf was frowning as she fired arrow after arrow with unerring accuracy, some flaming, else calling down beams of mystical starlight to strike down her foes; she lopped the head off a ghoul with her burning sword before responding inaudibly to the archmage. As she did so, a luminescent owl sparkled into life, perched upon her arm before taking flight amongst the trees.

"Right, time to take this into our own hands," Lucethious muttered. "Yulgash, with me."

The human, having cleared his vision, nodded and walked up next to him. Lucethious muttered an incantation. The world around them evaporated-

-leaving them in the shadows of trees beyond the attackers, and just out of sight of Winterchill. The lich was not battling, confident that his minions would complete the task for him - the perfect opportunity to strike. They strode forward from the shadows, ready to confront the powerful foe.

"Winterchill!" Lucethious shouted. The lich turned, a frown descending upon the skull features. A moment later the teeth twisted into a horrifying grin.

"You wish to confront me? Come then! I shall fill your lassst momentsss with freezing agony..." he taunted, raising a bony finger to cajole them into attacking.

In response, Lucethious cast a spell at the ground over which the lich hovered, the same one he had used on the necromancer - but with much more force. Winterchill hissed angrily as stones the size of cannonballs erupted forth, distracting the lich from his prey. Taking advantage of this distraction, Lucethious raised his arms, yelling a second incantation; droplets of water formed from the nearby mists, quickly condensing into icy bullets, which in turn sharpened into crystalline needles.

"Fool! You think to ussse my powersss againssst me?!" Winterchill hissed, waving a skeletal arm - the needles melted, then condensed into a globe of water; the lich raised his arm, and the water solidifed into a blast of solid ice. Lucethious leapt aside, if only to minimize the impact - and watched in surprise as a stream of fire melted it harmlessly. He glanced sideways to see Yulgash had cast the spell, and was now glaring at Winterchill.

"Ah... young, fresh... vulnerable," the lich said, grinning once more. He raised both arms and then brought them down forcefully, unleashing a wave of shadowy energy, but Yulgash and Belpep both shouted the same incantation, causing the energies to reflect outwards, dispersing away from each. Yulgash struck back, summoning a second jet of flame, clearly hoping it would have a similar effect on the lich, but Winterchill merely extended an arm and deflected the magical attack.

"Sssuccumb to the icy chill... of death!" he hissed, pointing at the ground. Yulgash and Belpep had the sense to flee, and moments later there was an explosion of frost; the chilling winds spiralled outwards, reaching for the human, seeking to pull him in. Lucethious moved towards him, a plan formulating in his mind.

"Yulgash! If we can combine-" he started to shout, but he was cut short as a bolt of ice struck him, knocking him to the ground. At the same time, he felt a freezing aura begin creep over him.

"It will be much colder in your grave," Winterchill assured him, still grinning wickedly. Yulgash ran over, evidently intending to help, but the lich hissed, "Crumble and rot!"

Immediately, noxious gasses and negative energies erupted into life around them. The pair quickly moved apart as the grass withered and died, the ground becoming dry and cracked; an unsuspecting beetle flew through the spell before plummeting earthward - the hapless insect crumbled to ash before it had struck the ground.

"All life must perish!" Winterchill declared, "And yoursss... shall be no different!"

Once more he raised his arms, this time summoning a swirling storm of frost and shadow energy, no doubt confident in his own prodigous magical skill to protect him from their attacks - he intended to be rid of them permanently in one strike.

"Lucethious, I think I know what you were thinking," Yulgash called to Lucethious from across the death and decay Winterchill's spell had caused, though he dared not move closer for fear of being caught in the deadly spell, "but... I think I have an alternative." He turned to his imp. "Belpep... you know what to do."

The imp nodded, placing a claw on Yulgash's knee, being as high as he could reach. Like the lich they battled, Yulgash also raised his arms and began to chant, closing his eyes and summoning the very magic in the air into his being. Lucethious watched, unsure what to do, as Yulgash melded and moulded with the magic, allowing it to channel through his body. Belpep assisted, summoning both energy from himself and the Nether, and channelling it into the human. Rage Winterchill, however, was too occupied with his own spell to notice what Yulgash was doing.

Just as Lucethious began to wonder which spellcaster would finish their spell first, and whether or not he should attack Winterchill in an attempt to distract him, Yulgash's eyes snapped open. Not unlike when he had demonstrated the power of the mountain's magic, his eyes were burning, but this time they were tinged with a glowing green. Lucethious gasped slightly - it was demonic magic.

Yulgash shouted the final part of his spell, igniting and unleashing the magic he had summoned. A torrent of flame exploded forth, as tall as the lich and thrice as wide, a roiling, burning wall of felfire. Winterchill's spell was cut short by an inhuman scream as the flames coursed over him, burning both his physical and unholy form. The red and green fire burned him with an almost eager hunger, incinerating the undead spellcaster.

"You have won thisss battle!" Winterchill managed to croak, "But not... the... war!..."

He managed nothing more as the felfire reduced him to ash, which in turn scattered to the winds. Lucethious gaped at the sight as Yulgash, gasping, fell to his knees - the attack had clearly taxed him greatly. Belpep, too, had lost a great deal of his energy: at the very least, he had stopped fidgeting for once.

They could not, however, afford to remain here, with the Scourge so nearby, and no doubt with more on the way. Lucethious swiftly strode up to his companion, gripping him firmly on the shoulder.

"Come on!" he urged, "We have to get out of here before the undead are upon us!"

Yulgash nodded weakly, and Lucethious muttered the same incantation as before, returning them to the base and behind the questionable safety of the Alliance defenders. Despite Rage Winterchill's demise, the Scourge still came at them ravenously.

"...can't hold on like this forever, we need help, now!" Jaina was shouting frantically at Tyrande over the cries of battle. Once more, the elf did not respond immediately, being caught up in fighting back the undead, and even then she only deigned to smile knowingly, something Lucethious felt was the last thing he wanted to do.

Until he heard the low growls, audible even over the sounds of fighting, drift from the trees. All of a sudden, he felt very much like smiling...


	35. Twilight of the Gods, part 3

**Chapter 35: Twilight of the Gods, part 3**

The growling was mildly soft at first, though it rapidly grew in volume. Both the Scourge and Alliance glanced about as it became more insistent, some curious, some apprehensive. Lucethious, however, knew full well what it meant, and welcomed the sound - they would be able to stand and fight these foul creatures all the better for it.

Abruptly, a hailstorm of arrows descended upon the combatants, flying out of the trees with blinding swiftness. A few fighters cried out in alarm and ducked, yet these arrows seemed almost magically guided to seek not the living, but the undead - Scourge crumpled as the bladed shafts impaled necromancers and cultists, shredded the flesh of ghouls and zombies, or even struck skeletons with enough force to blast the bones apart in different directions.

The Scourge had barely a moment to recover from this unexpected attack when night elf women astride their enormous panthers leapt from the dense undergrowth, sending the nearest line of shambling warriors flying. Now it was the necromancers and cultists crying out in alarm as the vicious beasts bore down upon them, snapping them up in their huge maws, else simply crushing them with their hulking weight. The warriors riding atop them shrieked battle cries, hurling their wicked glaives with astonishing accuracy.

Behind them, a number of night elven archers revealed themselves, firing off a second volley of arrows. Along with these archers were - Lucethious gaped - a strange combination of deer and elf. From the head down to the waist, they were indistinguishable from the night elves, though they mostly seemed to possess green hair as opposed to purple, blue or white; but from the waist down, all resemblence ended there. Instead, they had the lithe bodies of fawns - fur, tails, hooves and all.

These extraordinary deer-women seemed no strangers to combat, however; carrying thick but dangerously sharp wooden spears - enhanced by natural magic, no doubt, Lucethious thought to himself - they wove in and out of the battle with unparalleled grace and agility, impaling the shambling undead. In addition to their evident skill with hand-to-hand combat, they also appeared to possess another useful trait - with their arrival, Lucethious noticed that a necromancer or cultist would attempt to cast a spell, only to have no effect whatsoever. On these occasions, he had seen the deer-women gesture at the offending spellcaster before the spell had been completed, apparently negating the magic.

With this sudden arrival of reinforcements, the defenders were reinvigorated by the sight; the Scourge quickly began to get pushed back, and as a combined force of humans and night elves moved about to flank from behind, they found themselves cut off and overwhelmed. Before long the last rotting corpse was hacked to pieces, and a deathly silence settled over the battlefield.

"Praise be," one of the footmen cried, falling to his knees and breathing heavily, "were it not for the night elves, we would be slain by now!"

A rifleman nodded, adding, "Aye, their arrival was indeed timely; we owe 'em our lives."

There was a murmur of assent amongst the defenders, all of whom were thanking the night elves for their timely intervention. Lucethious found this break in the fighting to be opportune - Yulgash had expended a great deal of energy in dealing with Winterchill, both magical and otherwise, and as such he wanted to make sure the human had not over-exerted himself.

As it was, however, Yulgash was merely exhausted and a bit fatigued, but otherwise healthy. He had not rejoined the battle - not that there had been much need, with the night elves arriving shortly after Winterchill's demise - but had instead remained exactly where they had teleported back within the midst of the base, kneeling and catching his breath. His head was bent and his eyes were closed, but he looked up at Lucethious' approach.

"So, we won," he said, managing a weak smile.

"For now," Lucethious reminded him, "I'm sure there are plenty more Scourge waiting to try and devour us, else the Legion is planning some devious attack to overwhelm our remaining defenders." He paused, twirling one of his hands slightly and muttering an incantation; a flask of chilled water appeared in his other hand, which he handed to the human. "Here, it will help you recuperate."

"I hope the night elves figure out their plan quickly..." Yulgash muttered, accepting the flask with a grateful nod. He drank deeply and gave a relieved sigh. "Thanks, that helped a lot." He stood up and surveyed the carnage that the battle had left in its wake. "We didn't do too badly in the end, eh?"

"Thanks to the night elves," said Lucethious, "and their... interesting companions."

"A bit dour, aren't we?" Yulgash said, smirking slightly. "Though I must agree, while I've seen horse-men, pig-men, bear-men and whatever else, I wasn't expecting deer... women."

"Dryads, thankyou very much," a musical voice said from behind them, and they both jumped. One of the deer-women - or dryads, as this one had just informed them - was standing right next to them without their realization. She narrowed her eyes. "Hmph, arcane magic users..."

Flicking her head so her hair was out of her eyes, she skipped off, twirling her spear gracefully.

"I see they share a lot in common," Yulgash commented dryly. He stretched, handing the empty flask back to Lucethious. "Thanks, again. I suppose we had better prepare for the next attack?"

"I agree-" Lucethious started, but he was cut short by an ominous rumble. He was not the only one taken by surprise - the defenders all looked about apprehensively for the noise, trying to determine its source.

"The sky..." Yulgash breathed suddenly. Lucethious followed his gaze and looked up, but saw nothing out of the ordinary - until he noticed the clouds darkening, curling and thickening like choking smoke. The clear blue became tinged with orange, which became a burning red. A rank, sulphuric stench wafted along the air, making them wrinkle their noses. For Lucethious, Yulgash and the other magisters present, a more subtle but arguably more concerning change was detected - the magic in the air felt tainted, twisted; such an occurence could only have one source.

"The Legion has begun their advance..." murmured Lucethious.

* * *

The sounds of fighting was growing louder - they could hear it quite clearly through the dense undergrowth now: screeching, harsh cursing in orcish, and rhythmic heavy thuds and strikes. They increased their pace, determined not to arrive too late to be of assistance, following the direction of the commotion. Torgall glanced sideways - Greshka had her longblades out, teeth bared, and Torgus had one hand on his maul, which was still slung on his back, a look of wily determination on his grizzled features.

As they drew closer, they heard a pained roar, followed by a particularly vulgar oath; this was succeeded by a piercing shriek. Charging the last few yards at full speed, Torgall burst through the undergrowth into a small clearing with a savage roar, waving his axe threateningly.

It was as he feared - Valnok Windrager was surrounded by a cluster of gargoyles, all trying to slash at him with their stony talons. Next to him squatted Bristlefur who, despite snarling tauntingly, had a large gash on his flank, the flesh rent viciously and blood flowing freely from the wound. Despite the odds, however, they had together slain a half dozen of the batlike fiends; some bore clear marks of impalement from Valnok's spear, else had entire chunks torn from their bodies by Bristlefur, even with their rock-hard hides.

All the same, however, the situation looked grim for the pair - there were still several trying to strike at them from the ground, and yet more circling above. As he caught sight of them, brief shock covered his features, before breaking into a grateful grin, which in turn was replaced by a snarl of concentration as he deflected yet another attack with his spear, Bristlefur snapping at the attacking gargoyle.

As Torgall rushed to their aid, two more gargoyles swooped down to intercept him, no doubt considering him a lone target, easy to pick off, but Torgus and Greshka emerged just behind him, hot on his heels. As he rolled sideways, one of the gargoyles flew straight for them - it flapped its wings awkwardly, trying to alter its course, but too late - Greshka slashed one of its wings with her longblades and it gave a pained squall, and Torgus stepped forward, bringing his maul crashing down on its head.

Torgall rose from his roll, bringing his axe up and around as he did so - it caught the second gargoyle in the midriff. The beast spun about, one of its claws raking his arm, but not too deeply. He swore as the sharp nails bit through his armour and into his flesh, but before the gargoyle could retreat for a second attack, he lunged forward and grasped the talon that still had his blood upon it. The gargoyle attempted to fly away, but he held firm, and for several moments neither combatant made any headaway, but Torgall won through, swinging the gargoyle around with a mighty pull; it gave a shriek as it careened into a tree, shattering.

Valnok and Bristlefur, meanwhile, were still holding strong, even with the latter's injury. Even while on the ground they fought in tandem: Bristlefur would snap at one target, and Valnok would move in to cover him from a retaliatory strike, occasionally following up with an attack of his own. One gargoyle was too slow to avoid his thrust and gave a pained scream as the spear pierced through its wing, preventing it from fleeing. Before it could roll away or escape in any other manner, Valnok quickly ripped the spear out and plunged it through the beast's throat.

Abruptly, however, the attackers scattered, soaring over the trees and out of sight.

"Stop them!" Valnok bellowed, waving his hands wildly at Greshka. Slightly surprised, she whipped out her bow and fired off several arrows, but too late - most of them fell far, with only a couple striking one of the stragglers.

"Blast!" he snarled, baring his teeth and breathing heavily. After panting for a few moments, he composed himself. "Please don't take my frustration wrongly; I'm grateful for your intervention. A bit surprised, truth be told - I didn't think you'd succeed in rescuing your friend," he said, nodding at Torgus. He sighed and looked skyward a second time. "But those gargoyles are going to fetch reinforcements to finish us, I just know it."

"Well, let's get moving then," Torgall said as though it were obvious; but Valnok shook his head.

"Not with Bristlefur like this," he said, crouching down next to the wyvern. He reached into a leather pouch slung over his mount's back, rummaged around for several moments, and extracted a large bandage which he began to wrap around the wound.

"So... we'll bring him with us?" said Torgall, nonplussed; Valnok shook his head a second time.

"With a wound like this?" he snorted, gesturing at the bandage - already the blood was visible underneath. He wrapped it around several more times, and Bristlefur growled softly; the flow was stemmed, but it was clear the creature was in pain.

"Then what are we to do?" asked Torgus.

"Our best bet is to signal for reinforcements," replied the windrider, again reaching inside the satchel; this time he pulled out a flare gun. "Got this from that crazy goblin while we were preparing," he added, seeing their raised eyebrows. "Though on the other hand, one of you could go by foot, and bring reinforcements in without giving away our position..."

Now it was Torgall's turn to shake his head. "And what use is that? The Scourge already knows we're here; setting off a flare won't change that. And we'll need all the fighting power we can get if they return; no sense sending off a quarter of our fighting power on unnecessary subterfuge."

Valnok opened his mouth to disagree, then closed it when he realized the reasoning was sound. He nodded curtly and pointed the flaregun skyward - with a hissing bang, the flare exploded upwards, showering them with coloured sparks and leaving a thick trail of smoke. Going back to Bristlefur, he put his hand in the pouch for a third time, this time removing a whetstone; sitting himself down on a nearby log, he began idly running it along his spear to pass the time. Torgall sat down as well, as did Torgus and Greshka; it was going to be a tense wait...

* * *

Lucethious had thought that the Scourge led by Rage Winterchill had been a force of nature unto themselves; a relentless onslaught, pressing the defenders again and again. He had thought that the innumerable shambling corpses would test the limits of their determination. He had thought that it would be one of the hardest battles he had yet to face.

He was wrong.

Now the Burning Legion was in full force, crashing over them with unbelievable force. Felguard and doomguard alike charged the frontline, crushing any defenders who showed even an inkling of weakness. Felhounds snapped at their heels like feral wolves, hungrily seeking out magic users, and new demons assailed them as well: bulbous beings comprised of dark blue energy flowed towards them, consuming all with their devouring magic - they seemingly sucked in everything like an empty void yearning to be filled. In addition, succubi, feminine demons of ethereal beauty with batlike-wings and pointed tails, scantily clad in revealing leather armour, danced gracefully through the battle; warriors who had the misfortune to lay eyes upon them, male or female, became entranced, their movements becoming slow and sluggish, making them easy prey to the vicious lashes from their cruelly sharp whips.

Sure enough, the instigator behind all this was the dreadlord, Anetheron. Unlike Rage Winterchill, however, he did not take a direct stance in the battling, preferring to remain in the background and cast with impunity; perhaps he had witnessed his predecessor's untimely demise and was making certain that he did not follow suit. He wielded a different kind of magic altogether - one Lucethious could not determine how to counter. In one instance he summoned a swarm of bats that soared through the defenders, tearing at any exposed flesh. In another he had cast a sweeping motion over the defenders; abruptly, many fell into a deep sleep. Footmen crumpled, immediately set upon by felguard and felhounds, and knights sagged in their saddles, some of them falling amidst the hungering demons. Whenever he seemed to be drawing too much attention to himself, the dreadlord melted into the shadows, unseen, though Lucethious still felt his presence, psychically manipulating the Alliance and night elves into deceit and doubt, illusions and nightmares.

Lucethious gestured at a felguard, causing a number of heavy stones to pummel the demon as they had when they were battling Winterchill. The hulking warrior bellowed angrily as the huge rocks knocked it to the ground, whereupon he was quickly trampled by the various combatants. As he pointed at one of those rocks, causing it to explode into many sharp shards and into the surrounding demons, Yulgash approached alongside Belpep, sweating but also grinning.

"So, how long do you think we'd have lasted were it not for the night elves?" he asked, extending his arm and pointing at one of the succubi; she gave a shriek as a jet of flame issued forth, reducing her to ash within moments.

"We'd be long since dead," Lucethious replied shortly, not seeing the humour in the situation. Indeed, if the night elves were not assisting in their defense, the demons would have overrun the defenders in the first assault - the sheer brute force they possessed, coupled with the exhaustion of the Alliance warriors, would have allowed them to beat aside what little resistance they could put up with ease. Fortunately, the night elves were far from beaten, and made up for the damage caused by the Scourge with their own prodigous skill.

"Oh, we're not that bad-" Yulgash started, but stopped abruptly - a felhound, jaws slavering, was bounding towards them hungrily. Eyes narrowing, Yulgash held a hand, palm-out, towards the beast, and it gave a snarl of delight, extending a tentacle to latch on. As it made contact, the demon began to feed greedily, and Lucethious gave a cry of alarm. After a moment, however, Yulgash gave a shout and surged with energy - the elf watched in surprise as the felhound futilely attempted to pull away, but within moments it literally began to _swell_, growing larger and larger until the unstable energies feeding into it burst forth; it gave a brief howl before flesh and fur splattered everywhere, leaving a tentacle drooping from Yulgash's palm. He gave a slight snort of disgust and shook it off, apparently unpeturbed by the ichor splattered over his robes.

"What's our next move?" he asked, clapping his hands together.

"We keep holding off the demons as long as we can," Lucethious replied wearily, inwardly awed that the young human could remain so calm and humourous at such a difficult time, where they all balanced on the brink of death.

"I was more thinking after we-" Yulgash began, but again was cut off - this time by a high pitched whistling. They sound perked Lucethious' ears, stirring something in his memory... he vaguely recalled the sound, and knew it did not bode well, but could not quite remember-

"The skies!" came a sudden cry, and they saw Jaina pointing frantically at the clouds, "Everybody, scatter!"

Both he and Yulgash looked upwards, and sure enough, there was an infernal careening towards them. A lone one, but even a single infernal was enough to shatter their defense. Glancing around in horror, he saw Anetheron had once more made himself visible, and was grinning wickedly - it was clear he was responsible for this attack.

"Blast him!" the elf fumed, "He's going to undo everything we've done!"

"Not if I can help it," muttered Yulgash, moving to an open space - directly in the path of the deadly, fiery missile. Standing with his arms to the side, the mage began to chant, softly at first, but getting louder with each syllable. As he spoke, he raised his arms slowly, as if lifting a heavy weight - and as he did so, Lucethious noticed the infernal seemingly falter in its course.

"Could use... some help... here..." the human managed to grunt, fresh sweat beading on his forehead. Lucethious hurried forward, placing his hand on Yulgash's shoulder, and began channeling his own energy into the spell. Belpep, too, did likewise. As they funneled their magic into the human, who acted like a living conduit for the energy, a slight shimmering enveloping the fortification.

The infernal slowed yet further, but it was still hurtling towards them with deadly force. Some of the other magisters, however, also noticed their spell, and followed Yulgash's lead - they, too, chanted the same spell and raised their arms, until a sparkling shield was erected over the base. Lucethious looked up, hoping desparately that the shield would hold. The infernal was still plummeting towards them, but as they watched with bated breath, it slowed further... its course altered slightly, dropping earthward moreso than forward... and even then it began to slow yet again, as if falling through water.

With a sudden grunt, Yulgash pulled his arms back, condensing the shield into a solid barrier. With a thrust and a cry of effort, he shoved this energy outwards.

The infernal _rebounded_ in the opposite direction.

Rolling harmlessly away from the combatants, it came to a halt and rose into its hulking form, but Lucethious breathed a sigh of relief - thanks to their intervention, a potential disaster had been averted.

Barely a moment after this, he felt his body suddenly weaken. His eyes grew heavy, and he suddenly felt very tired. Yulgash, though panting from the exertion of repulsing an infernal, did not seem to be afflicted by the same exhaustion, however, and was frowing at his companion in concern.

Abruptly, Lucethious felt his feet leave the ground as he was lifted bodily and thrown aside like a ragdoll. He hit the ground hard, but the pain seemed dulled by the wave of tiredness that was washing over him. Blearily, he saw none other than Anetheron approaching them from the shadows, and realized that the demon was steadily putting him to sleep.

"So... you are the one that spoiled my fun," he said, addressing Yulgash. The human stood firm, eyes narrowed - surely the other defenders would see this towering demon in their midst?

"Ah, not today, young mage," sneered the dreadlord, apparently reading his mind, "they see only what I wish them to see - I've been manipulating their thoughts throughout the course of this whole battle..."

Of course, that made sense, Lucethious thought to himself, before yawning loudly - even thought sapped too much energy. Anetheron glanced in his direction.

"You look tired," he hissed, flashing a cruel grin at him, before turning his attention back to Yulgash - at which point he spotted Belpep. "Ah, I see you're not a mage, but a warlock! Shame on you, enslaving my brethren in your world... what if I sent you to my world, and _you_ learnt what it's like to be enslaved?"

Yulgash suddenly stiffened, his arms and legs snapping together - it was clear that the demon had magically bound him, and despite the young human's best efforts, he could not break free. Belpep glanced between them, unsure what to do, as Anetheron chanted in demonic. A shimmering, purple glow surrounded Yulgash, and through his haze of tiredness, Lucethious realized what the dreadlord was doing - he was opening a portal to the Twisting Nether, and was going to send Yulgash through it!

Despite the exhaustion wracking his body, the magical spell that Anetheron had afflicted him with, Lucethious forced himself to rise. He could only imagine the horrors that awaited the human if Anetheron's spell was allowed to be completed. He took one step forward, his foot landing heavily. He took another. And another. Each leg felt as though it were filled with lead, but he would not let himself fall, not at this crucial juncture. Pushing past the magical fatigue, he summoned a disruptive spell in his mind, reaching out towards the human... just a bit closer...

Belpep saw him approaching. He stared uncertainly at the elf, then at Yulgash, before glancing at Anetheron. He seemed to be doing some quick thinking, but swiftly made up his mind - placing a tiny claw on Yulgash's leg, he began chanting the same spell Lucethious was casting in his mind. The elf belatedly realized who the imp had chosen to support.

His hand came in contact with Yulgash's arm. He spoke the last syllable of his spell.

So did Belpep.

So did Anetheron.

The world became darkness.

_Author's note: I'm really sorry this chapter came so late, I've been weighted down by an absurd amount of university work It's probably going to keep me bogged down for the next week and a bit, but hopefully I'll be able to get some more writing in over the long weekend to offset that; no guarantee, however, as I have an essay that I have to write as well, and a maths assignment... bleh =\_


	36. Twilight of the Gods, part 4

**Chapter 36: Twilight of the Gods, part 4**

The silence that permeated their surroundings was both comforting and chilling for Torgall. He welcomed the serenity that it provided - it gave him clarity of thought, and reassured him that the stillness would be shattered at the slightest sound of an approach, which would give them ample time to prepare. At the same time, he found the complete lack of noise - wildlife, battlecries or otherwise - to be not a little bit ominous. It was as though someone or something had extinguished all life.

As it was, the only sounds that they heard was their own breathing, the crunching of leaves when one of them would move about restlessly, or the low growls from Bristlefur. The tense environment did not help - they were already anxious enough as it was, knowing that the Scourge would surely move on their position soon.

"How is he?" Torgall asked finally, deciding to break the silence at last; he doubt he could have waited any longer, anyway - the terseness of the group was so thick he felt he could cut it with his axe. Valnok glanced up at him, then looked back at the wound and gave a small sigh.

"The bleeding has been stemmed, so he's in no danger of blood loss," he said, taking off his helmet and running his thick fingers through his hair - Torgall realized it was the first time he had seen the other orc without his helmet on, and that the rough hair was dark and black, not unlike his own, save the greying streaks he himself posessed.

"But?" he asked - there was always a 'but'. Valnok gave a second sigh.

"There's no telling what degree of infection there might be," he said heavily, "not without taking off the bandages and risking re-opening the wound. The longer it stays open, the longer we have to remain put."

"You don't mean-" Torgall started, but Valnok cut him off.

"No, not the plague," he said quickly, "as far as we know, gargoyles can't spread it... so there shouldn't be anything to fear. No, I mean regular infections. There could be any number of diseases on those talons, festering away..." He gave a low growl, gripping his spear tightly. "They'll pay if it turns out to be serious..."

"There'll be plenty of time to mete out revenge," Torgall said placatingly, "but for now, I think we should focus on our own survival."

Valnok growled again, but nodded grudgingly. Once more they lapsed into silence broken by an occasional movement or grunt on their part. If only to give himself something to do, Torgall picked up the whetstone that Valnok had been using earlier, sharpening his axe without paying much attention to what he was doing. Torgus was standing nearby, straight-backed and rigid, his maul slung over his back and his grey hair fluttering slightly as a mild breeze blew through their small clearing. Greshka, meanwhile, was crouched low and seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, though her ears were perked attentively.

As Torgall continued to run the whetstone along the blade of his axe, he wondered what was happening at the Alliance's base. Had the Scourge and Legion triumphed over their defenses yet? Had Lucethious and Yulgash survived? And what of Sapph - had she assisted in the defense, or was she still prowling the forests like she said she would? Almost instinctively, his fingers went to the golden chain she had given him earlier. The metal still felt cold against his skin, though he had long since learnt to ignore it. He wondered if it would truly work, and had even contemplated discarding it at one point - but what would be the gain in that, he had asked himself. Sapph had remained true to them thus far, and he firmly doubted she would fail them at such a crucial juncture.

Abruptly, Greshka muttered quietly, "They're coming."

They all looked up warily. She was staring pointedly at a rock, though her eyes were slightly unfocused, as if she were dazed. After several moments of silence, she looked up and saw them all staring at her, and started slightly - apparently she was unaware that she had even said anything at all.

"How far do you think they are?" Valnok asked.

She stared at him, as though contemplating the question, before saying finally, "Still a fair distance away. I can smell them more than I can hear them, at least."

They exchanged half-anxious, half-doubtful looks, but reminded themselves that both Greshka's senses and instincts were far more acute than theirs, and were rarely wrong.

"Guess we'd better make ready, then," Torgus said gruffly, speaking for the first time since their arrival, unslinging his maul and swinging it around threateningly. They each nodded in agreement, preparing their own weapons - it was time to make a stand.

* * *

Yulgash gasped as conciousness returned to him. He struggled briefly, his last memories being of Anetheron's leering demonic visage looming towards him and magical bonds constraining his movements. As he realized his arms and legs were no longer bound, he relaxed momentarily, until he opened his eyes.

He gasped a second time and shut them tight.

They could not block out what he had seen - a chaotic swirl of colour and chaos. Even with his lids tightly shut, light assailed him, bombarding his senses and sending them into overdrive. He clenched his teeth, trying to block out the intense glare, but to no avail; bracing himself for the inevitable, he slowly opened his eyes again.

The sight was unimaginable. It was real but not. It was here and there. It was immeasureable and immaculate. Half in awe, half filled with dread, he slowly got to his feet, drinking in his surroundings. Darkness pressed him from all sides while flashes and streaks of light threatened to blind him. He felt as if he were standing and floating simultaneously; he looked down and saw his feet disappeared into a thick sheet of darkness that stretched to his ankles. His hair felt on end and his skin prickled very slightly; the air was charged with magical energy, not unlike atop Hyjal. The sound of his breathing wavered sporadically; at some points his breath came out in echoing gasps, drifting away into the abyss, and at others they were muffled, quickly stifled as soon as they left his mouth. Above him, glowing streams of energy, the colour of a fel green hue, lazily trailed across what barely passed for a star-specked sky, and in the distance he could see the vague shape of a planet - or was it a moon? Perhaps it was an enormous infernal - he could not tell...

As Yulgash began to calm and get used to his surroundings, he realized without effort where he was. The answer rose to his lips without a second thought.

"The Twisting Nether," he whispered to himself, still filled with both awe and dread. It seemed that Anetheron's spell had been successful - or at least partly successful. This area of the Nether was not teeming with countless hordes of demons. From what little information he had gleaned in his time at Dalaran, Yulgash had learnt that there were various planes of the Nether, and that each had various aspects. Some were conquerd by the demons, others were utterly devoid of anything. Some had laws of physics and time that did not function properly; judging by his current location, he surmised that Lucethious and Belpep's counterspell had partially worked. While he was in the Twisting Nether, he had at least been shunted to a less dangerous plane.

The thought of two companions suddenly sent Yulgash into full alert. He quickly spun about on the spot, trying and failing to see if they had been dragged along with him.

"Lucethious?!" he called out, slightly panicked. The last few syllables rang out and echoed into the distance, leaving a fading repeat of, "ethious, ethious, ethious..." in the chaotic darkness.

"Belpep?!"

Again, his voice was warped and echoed; the sound faded into the distance, then suddenly rung out about him, then faded once more. Squinting, Yulgash summoned his energy within himself, trying to magically enhance his senses. He was succeeded, if only somewhat: in the distance - or perhaps it was mere feet before him, the chaos of the Nether played tricks on his perception - he could see two indistinct blurs. One seemed fairly long, the other quite small. He knew immdiately who they were.

"Lucethious... Belpep..." he muttered as he approached them, half-running and half-swimming in the confusing plane of existence, and then falling to his knees to observe them more closely; both were breathing, at least. Lucethious, however, appeared worryingly pale, and his eyes were closed - he was clearly unconcious. Belpep's eyes were also closed, and his flames seemed to have dimmed slightly, but as Yulgash cautiously reached out towards him, his eyes suddenly snapped open and he leapt to his feet.

"Ack! What, where, how-?!" he chirruped, looking about wildly. "Oh... the Twisting Nether... back home, I guess." He continued to look about, and he caught sight of Yulgash. "Ah, you're here too. I'm guessing that means this isn't a holiday trip?"

"We need to get out of here. Now," Yulgash said without preamble. "Do you know what's wrong with Lucethious?"

Belpep skipped up to the elf, frowning slightly. He mumbled something in demonic, cast a few minor spells, and then felt various parts of the body.

"Magically induced coma," he proclaimed after a minute. "The sleep spell Anetheron had placed on him reacted badly with the teleport counterspell; had it succeeded, all of the energy sustaining the portal would have dissipated harmlessly. Something in him triggered an unstable reaction, however, and instead he acted like a conduit - all of the energy has been funnelled into him, and it's suppressing his conciousness. I doubt he's aware of where he is - if he's aware at all. I expect that he's awake, but at a very deep, very subconcious level."

"Meaning... what?" Yulgash asked blankly - Belpep had run through that explanation at top-speed, his impish demeanour not allowing room for a steady breakdown of the situation.

"Meaning that we need to find some way to get that magic out of him," he said simply. "If we can dispel all of that pent-up energy, it should stop suppressing his mind and wake him up. Or it will kill him," he added with a shrug.

"Brilliant," groaned Yulgash, sitting down in the darkness, only to find himself floating helplessly; he sought even footing, but only succeeded in treading water in mid-air. He grunted angrily - the awkward physics were beginning to annoy him.

"Is there any way to get out of here?" he asked, fruitlessly swatting a hand to the side as he attempted to find any form of solidity.

"Best bet is to open a portal back to Azeroth," the imp replied simply with a second shrug. "Only thing is, you don't know where you'll end up without an anchor."

"Come again?"

"The Nether is goverened by chaotic forces - pretty much anything is possible here. Opening a portal is but a trivial task. Azeroth is a world controlled by laws - everything has a set place. Careful, concentrated manipulation is required to have any effect on the world. You could open a portal on this end with ease, but there's no guarantee where you'll end up on Azeroth - you could land in a city, or you could find yourself at the bottom of the sea."

"But I summoned you easily enough-" Yulgash began.

"-by opening a stabilized portal on Azeroth," Belpep cut him off. "Same as how Anetheron sent us here - he opened a stable portal to the Nether on Azeroth. Except with mine and Lucethious' intervention, we managed to alter the destination. Of course, if the counterspell hadn't been compromised by Anetheron's work, we would have cancelled the portal altogether."

"Okay, this is an interesting lesson about portals and everything, but it's not getting us back to Azeroth," Yulgash interjected. "You said we need an anchor - I assume that means a portal on Azeroth?"

"It could be. Or you could use sympathetic resonance - you seem to be pretty good at that," suggested Belpep. Yulgash opened his mouth to respond, but stopped, thinking. The imp's words rung true - he could use sympathetic resonance to get them to safety, assuming that Hyjal was any safer than their current predicament.

All the same - what other choice did he have?

"All right... I'll give it a shot," he said. Belpep gave a non-committal squeak and settled himself down to watch.

Yulgash paused, wondering how to begin. He thought about Belpep's explanation that the Nether was chaotic, and decided on a simple approach. He raised his hands, summoning his energy and reached out - here, he did not have his magical aids or reagents, but he knew he wouldn't need them. How he knew, he could not tell.

As he reached forth, his hands glowed a bright purple, not unlike a summoning portal. Abruptly he felt a very slight resistance, as though there were a veil before him. Realizing what needed to be done, he _tore_ at the veil, pulling it aside like it were a curtain. Before him was a shimmering wall of sparkling energies, awaiting his command and manipulation to form a portal to Azeroth.

"So..." he said, matter-of-factly, pleased with his success. "Let's see if this works..."

* * *

"They're getting close now," Greshka said. They each gave her a half-glance, though none of them doubted her instincts now - they could smell the stench of rotting flesh carried on the wind. They were standing in a diamond formation, each at a separate point: Greshka stood with her bow in one hand, an arrow half-nocked; Torgall was in a tense battle stance, his axe at the ready; Torgus stood with the confidence of a veteran warrior, maul raised in defiance; and Valnok stood defensively before Bristlefur, his spear held aloft protectively over his loyal mount.

They had already skirmished with a few gargoyles, which had joined their earlier brethren and had been pushed untidily into a gap in the trees that was wider than others - they hoped that the corpses might briefly stem the incoming attackers. It was this makeshift barricade that Greshka was eyeing carefully.

A rustling caught their attention, and they tensed briefly, awaiting the first wave of attackers, but there was nothing there. They glared suspiciously at the direction of the noise before resuming their stances.

And all cried out in surprise as a ghoul lunged at them from the trees.

"What manner of ambush is this?!" Valnok blurted, dodging to the side and impaling the festering corpse with his spear. Torgall opened his mouth to reply but was cut short as, with a gurgling snarl, yet another ghoul sailed through the air towards them - more specifically, himself. Imitating Valnok's maneuver, he stepped sideways, allowing the zombie's momentum to cause it to go plummeting into the earth like a rotting, fleshy missile, and brought the axe down to sever the head from the body.

"From above!" shouted Greshka warningly, firing off several arrows as a pair of gargoyles careened through the air towards them. The first was riddled with shafts and hit the ground hard, but the second dodged her attacks, instead flying straight for Bristlefur. Valnok noticed this, however, and with an enraged bellow, tackled the bat-fiend to the ground before it could reach the injured wyvern. The gargoyle attempted to throw him off, but he plunged the spear directly into its face, causing it to fall abruptly still.

"More ghouls!" growled Torgus, swinging his maul in a huge overhead arc; the first of the ghouls was knocked bodily into the air, barreling over two others. Those behind it tried to leap upon him, but with a roar, Torgus slammed his entire body into them, causing them to fall into a heap, their legs unable to withstand the massive force that struck them.

Torgall moved towards Torgus, intended to help the older orc, but a clattering behind him made him turn. Cutting through the undergrowth were several skeletons of varying heights - whatever races they belonged to was difficult to tell. One of them wore a horned helmet, and appeared better equipped than the others - it carried a barbed blade and a heavy shield, along with some basic plate armour. Glowing red eyes surveyed him calculatingly. Another, however, was dressed in tattered and ragged robes and carried a glowing wand; it was plainly obvious that this one wielded magic. The remainder simply carried basic weaponry and armour, or nothing at all. Baring his teeth, he waved his axe through the air, taunting them to come for him.

The horned skeleton raised its sword and hissed something unintelligible to the orc, and the others save the magus charged forward. Bellowing his own warcry, Torgall kicked out at the first, an unarmed and unarmored skeleton, causing the bones to collapse outwards - he had expected little else to happen. The second one that came at him was wielding a simple hand-axe, one which he raised his arm to block; the blade bit into his leather armour, but did not penetrate far enough to cause harm. Wrenching his arm back, the skeleton's entire arm was pulled free, the ensuing force sending it spinning into a tree where it collapsed into a pile of bones.

As he raised his axe to meet the next attacker, he noticed a glowing blue from the corner of his eyes and ducked sideways; a moment later a bolt of ice rocketed past, cast forth from the skeletal mage. He growled angrily but could not retaliate, being pressed from both sides by two more skeletons. The one to his left, a smaller skeleton, carried a dagger and a wooden mallet; the other was hefting a large, rusted claymore. He was briefly torn by indecision before deciding to let the undead make the first move - the smaller skeleton struck at him first, jabbing at him with its dagger while raising the mallet. Batting the dagger aside, Torgall reached forth and grabbed the other arm holding the mallet, stopping it from crashing down on his wrist. As he did so, he saw from the corner of his vision the other skeleton winding up a powerful swing with its claymore.

Abruptly, Torgall made a split-second decision. Dropping his axe, he grabbed the smaller skeleton with both hands and spun about, swinging it violently. The necromantic magic holding the bones together resisted, but that was what he had hoped - letting go, he watched with satisfaction as the smaller skeleton collided with its larger companion, causing them both to break apart in a clatter of bones.

And watched with a mix of shock and anger as the bones quivered and reassembled.

Not as two separate skeletons, however - he was not so lucky. Rather, the mass of bones jumbled and squashed together to form an even larger opponent than before, creating a golem of bone. Sparing a glance to the side, Torgall saw the skeletal mage's teeth clacking together, giving off a hissing laughter, the wand still glowing from its spell. He bared his teeth and snarled at it, but quickly re-focused his attention on his larger, more intimidating opponent - and barely a moment too soon.

The bone golem had lifted both the claymore and mallet from the ground, throwing the latter with dangerous force at the orc; Torgall dived to the side, his eyes widening slightly as the hammer struck a tree branch and knocked it clean from the trunk. He rolled quickly as the skeleton approached, swinging the claymore in one hand with casual ease. Scrambling to his feet, Torgall hurriedly snatched up his axe from the ground and rose it to block, deflecting a forceful blow from his opponent. The new skeleton-golem had a frightening appearance up close - various bone protrusions littered its form, easily sharp enough to act as makeshift weapons and protection, and a pair of horns jutted awkwardly from the scalp. It gnashed its jagged, yellowing teeth at him threateningly as it raised the claymore for another strike.

This time, he was not going to let it get the upper hand. Ducking under its strike, he brought his axe up and around, aiming for the arm carrying the claymore. To his dismay, the blade merely rebounded off the thick arm, leaving only a shallow nick in the bone. Undaunted, he danced behind his slower opponent and renewed his strike, this time aiming for the neck. But before his axe could connect, he saw the skeletal mage summoning another bolt of frost, and was forced to abandon his attack to avoid the magical blast.

Risking a glance to the side, he looked to see how his companions were doing. Greshka was fighting with a savage fury; she had abandoned her bow in favour of her longblades now, the quarters being too close to use ranged attacks effectively. Ghouls and zombies fell apart around her in piles of rotting flesh as she hacked and slashed, her weapons flashing in the sunlight. Torgus was bellowing like a berserker, crushing anything that was too careless to get near him with his maul; a ghoul that wandered too near was sent flying into a tree, and he ground a skeleton to dust in the blink of an eye. Valnok was fighting more cautiously but no less dangerously - his concern for Bristlefur was clear, but that hadn't stopped a small number of corpses piling up around him.

Torgall's moment of inattentiveness very nearly cost him - it was not a bolt of frost this time, but a ball of flame. However, this gave him an idea. The bone golem's skeleton was too thick for his axe to be of any use, and he wouldn't be able to land a precise blow with the skeleton mage harassing him. But if he could combine the two...

Carefully positioning himself, he allowed the lumbering skeleton to size him up again. The claymore rose and fell, to which he warily avoided. He was deliberate in his movements, making sure he appeared convincing, but at the same time he did not needlessly attack - no sense wasting energy which could be put to better use against an opponent he could actually cause harm to. The skeletal mage employed a variety of magic, including frost and shadow, but also lobbed fireballs as well. Unfortunately for Torgall, these were cast at inopportune times, and missed the bone golem.

At last, however, he was in the position he desired. The bone golem was raising the claymore, lumbering towards him, when the mage's bone hands erupted in flame. Torgall watched both undead carefully, timing his movements... the golem drew closer, the mage continued to hiss its incantation... and then it fired. As the flames left its clawlike fingers, Torgall suddenly lunged forward, towards the bone golem. It gave a brief hiss of surprise which became louder by tenfold as the flames, magically reaching for Torgall, connected with it instead.

Torgall rolled to the side, watching with mild surprise as the huge skeleton burned fiercely, the thick bone somehow fuelling and feeding the flames rather than diminishing them; he had not expected the attack to prove so effectual. Over the crackling flames he could hear the skeletal mage hissing in frustration - evidently, it had not counted on Torgall using its own magic against it in such a manner. He could see his companions and even some of the other Scourge looking at the heavy smoke billowing from the golem in surprise. The only ones not surprised were the skeletal mage, which continued to hiss angrily, and the heavily armoured skeleton warrior, the red eyes still surveying him passively.

Panting, Torgall grinned tauntingly at the mage. In response, it sent a bolt of shadow energy spiralling towards him, one he easily dodged. Without the other skeletons distracting him, he could swiftly close the distance between himself and the irksome spellcaster. The magus gave a surprised hiss as he charged towards it; it summoned a shield of magical energy, but too late - with a triumphant yell, he cleaved clean through the magus' robes and shattered the ribs, causing it to collapse to the ground, the skull rolling away into the undergrowth.

Torgall turned, ready to face the remaining skeleton, half-raising his axe- and stopped. Something in the air around him felt different, as though gravity was pulling him sideways rather than downwards. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the sky above them all contort and glow - it looked as though reality itself was being warped. The skeleton warrior, too, was watching, though its demeanour still seemed passive.

The warp in the air coalesced, forming what Torgall recognized as a portal, having seen many used when he, his companions and Meilosh and his brethren were summoned by the Alliance magisters. He had barely begun to wonder why a portal was forming here of all places when three figures dropped from it, landing amidst the orcs and Scourge.

Three figures he belatedly recognized as Yulgash, Lucethious and Belpep.

Torgall instinctively moved to aid them, but he saw that Yulgash and Belpep, at least, were awake and aware, if slightly disoriented by their sudden appearance. That satisfied him enough that the trio could handle themselves. Throughout both his battle with the other skeletons and this bizarre turn of events, the skeleton warrior had remained strangely still, watching soundlessly. Now, however, its patience had apparently reached its limit - it raised its weapon challengingly, its jaw creaking as it opened.

"And now," it rasped, the red eyes glowing brightly, "we duel."


	37. Twilight of the Gods, part 5

**Chapter 37: Twilight of the Gods, part 5**

Torgall raised his axe defiantly, ready to meet the skeleton head-on - it charged him, shield raised and blade drawn back for a quick thrust. Anticipating the strike, he weaved to the side as the barbed blade jabbed towards him, missing his shoulder by inches. As he turned, however, the bone arm rotated in its joint in a way a living creature's could not, lashing out and slicing his upper arm; he gave a bellow of pain and anger as the blade cut through his armour and bit into his flesh. He whirled about snarling, raising the axe to retaliate.

Again, the skeleton came at him with its shield raised - Torgall rushed forward, swinging the axe, but was brought up short as his opponent rammed the shield into his chest, knocking the breath clean from his lungs and causing him to stagger, his charge faltering. The blade came up a second time, ready to inflict another debilitating wound, but Torgall still had enough momentum to clumsily roll to the side, avoiding the attack by a hair's width.

As he leapt to his feet, baring his teeth and growling in the back of his throat, he realized that this was not a simple-minded undead individual - it was a cunning and powerful warrior, likely controlled by powerful magic. He would not be able to defeat it through sheer brute force alone, but would need to outsmart it, lest it gain the upper hand. The red eyes continued to survey him passively, weapon and shield raised, waiting for him to strike back.

Fully aware that his allies were still battling undead pressing them from all sides and that they would be unable to assist him if his own fight took a turn for the worse, Torgall made up his mind quickly. He charged fowards a second time, intending for the skeleton to repeat the same shield maneuver as before - sure enough, the shield came up and thrust out as he neared, but this time he braced himself for the impact: as he was barely a foot away from contact, he gave a last-moment burst of speed, hoping to break his opponent's guard. He felt a twinge of satisfaction as he felt the shield arm give slightly - only to cry out in surprise and fury as the skeleton shoved the shield out with tremendous force, sending him staggering back several paces.

He quickly caught himself, straightening up and staring at his opponent with a mixture of shock and apprehension - it was clear that this was a very powerful individual, with strength easily rivalling that of the bone golem he had had to contend with minutes ago. The skeleton warrior was on the offensive now, approaching him with a calm level of surety and confidence. Torgall's eyes flickered up and down, scanning his opponent for any weaknesses, any openings that he could exploit, but found nothing. In the end his gaze settled on the shield - he would need to remove it to have any chance of success.

As the skeleton neared, he raised his axe, ready for its attack - as the blade fell towards him, he gave a powerful two-handed swing, knocking it far to the side. With that threat tempoarily disposed of, he lunged foward, grabbing the shield in one hand and holding his axe up with the other, acting as a tempoary guard. The skeleton gave an angry hiss, the first sign of any real emotion from the undead, and tugged the shield back forcefully. Torgall refused to release it, however, and was pulled forward - his momentum carried him into his opponent, knocking them both to the ground.

Torgall rolled as he hit the ground, breaking his fall to a degree, while the skeleton scrambled about to maintain its hold on the sword and shield. During that moment of respite, Torgall risked a glance at the others. Greshka, Torgus and Valnok were still fighting without impediment - Greshka was mostly covered in foul ichor, which obscured any wounds she might have had; Torgus had a number of bruises but appeared not to notice them; and Valnok had sustained a number of scratches and gashes, however he continued to battle with fierce abandon, refusing to allow any undead near Bristlefur.

What caught Torgall's attention was Yulgash, Belpep and Lucethious. He had convinced himself that they were battle-worthy to handle themselves - he had seen their magic in use before, after all, to great effect - but with a closer look, he could see that the first two looked rather ragged and exhausted, while the third still hadn't moved. He made a move towards them, briefly forgetting about his fight with the skeleton, but with an angry hiss, his opponent reached and wrapped its fingers around his ankle, biting into the armour. He let out a cry of pain and kicked out, trying to throw it off.

The skeleton's strength, however, was tremendous - still clutching his leg with one hand, it used its other to push itself to its feet, upending the orc in the process. Torgall struck the ground hard, belatedly realizing that his leg had been released as he stared up at the skeleton, dazed and slightly surprised by what he was seeing. Whereas earlier it had been fighting with a cold and calm demeanour, it was now hissing and snarling, the red eyes glowing bright.

He shook his head, clearing the stars clouding his vision and leapt to his feet, the skeleton's blade cutting the air where his neck had been moments ago. He chanced a glance over his shoulder, and his eyes briefly met Yulgash's. The mage frowned, reading his gaze, and nodded. It happened in the space of a heartbeat - already, Torgall was forced on the defensive as the skeleton warrior, still hissing and spitting furiously, continued to press its attack.

Torgall gritted his teeth as he awkwardly parried a strike; he dodged backwards as a bony leg kicked out; ducked quickly as the shield swung out at his chest. This undead had unbridled strength and swiftness, and had now added ferocity to the mix.

Abruptly, the skeleton hissed angrily as it was lifted several feet off the ground and thrown backwards, crashing into a tree and getting wedged in the trunk. Torgall looked around wildly and saw Yulgash had his arms out and was panting, but the magical attack had done the trick - his opponent was briefly incapacitated. Seizing the opportunity, he hurried over to the human.

"What's wrong?" he barked, noting the sweat on his brow.

"Powerful... magic," Yulgash panted, "Was already tired, but... that skeleton is worryingly strong..."

"You don't say," Torgall growled, watching warily as the skeleton struggled to free itself from the splintered wood, "what's wrong with him?" he added, pointing at Lucethious.

"He's been magically incapacitated," Yulgash said in a hurry, "we need to find someone to remove a great deal of magic- look out!" he cried.

Torgall whirled about, then grabbed Yulgash and pushed him to the ground. The skeleton had managed to extricate itself from the tree, in the process snapping off a thick branch and throwing it at the pair with incredible force; Torgall felt a rush of wind as it passed over them. He rose, bellowing in defiance, despite the strength of his opponent. Yulgash scrambled to his feet as well, stumbling slightly as his feet tangled with his robes.

"Come!" the skeleton hissed, raising the blade tauntingly.

Torgall ran forwards, noticing Yulgash's hands flare in the corner of his eye. The skeleton lunged at him, aiming to skewer his shoulder, but a rope of flame sparked into life around its gauntleted hand; it gave an angry clatter, but the distraction was all Torgall needed. Putting extra force behind his strike, he aimed for the shoulder of the shield-bearing arm - it was protected by a heavy pauldron, but he knew that if he struck it with enough force he could hopefully dislodge the arm entirely, breaking his opponent's defence.

Unfortunately, despite the skeleton's brief moment of inattentivity, it still managed to bring its shield up in a clumsy defense. The axe's movement was slowed slighty, and it clanged loudly off the shoulder armour. It did, however, manage to partially achieve Torgall's desired effect - the arm shifted slightly out of the socket, and went limp. The skeleton hissed angrily and reached for it, but had to lift its blade to parry Torgall's next attack - now that he had an advantage, he was not about to lose it.

He rushed forward, striking blow after blow at the undead, hoping to open up another chink in the defenses. The skeleton managed to block and parry with both incredible speed and force, swatting aside his axe with the barbed sword - Torgall was beginning to think it was magically empowered, given it hadn't shattered yet - but it had no real opportunities to counter-strike. Yulgash supplemented his attacks, causing the ground around it to shudder and shake, or great gusts of wind to help throw it off-balance.

The skeleton still fought with ferocity, but Torgall could sense that it was weakening. Without its shield to block his attacks and being forced to parry with a sword, he had reach - the skeleton's ability to rotate its joints with impunity, however, gave it flexibility that he could not match; but with the threat diminished, he was able to be more aware of his surroundings, most notably of his allies, and Lucethious, who was still lying unconcious on the ground.

He was just proceeding with a powerful downward strike when a heavy, dark shadow passed over them all, coupled with an enormous blast of wind that kicked up dust and leaves, shook the trees and sent them all stumbling. They all looked up in surprise, but the undead seemed reinvigorated by the strange suddenness of whatever had caused such an anomaly; indeed, the skeleton warrior began giving off a hissing cackle, its teeth clattering maliciously.

Torgall immediately capitalized on its brief lapse in action, rushing forwards and bringing his axe down. The skeleton raised its blade too late, only deflecting his weapon very slightly, but enough to stop it from cleaving into its breastplate; instead, the axe sunk into the shield that still hung uselessly by its side. With an annoyed grunt, Torgall yanked the axe backwards, and with a resounding _crack_, the shield came flying off, arm and all. He watched, eyebrows raised, as it hurtled off the axehead, crashing into a ghoul attacking Greshka.

He rounded on the skeleton, grinning at what he had just wrought - and his smile faltered to see that it was laughing harder than before. He bared his teeth, preparing to finish off the damaged undead, but a second gust of wind kicked up, stronger than before, and Valnok's voice suddenly cut across the sounds of battle.

"Everyone, break apart!" he bellowed, "_Now!_"

Torgall glanced up, and dropped to the ground a heartbeat later, scrambling for the edge of the clearing. Above them in all its menacing fury was a frostwyrm.

* * *

Yulgash gaped in shock and horror, drinking in the terrifying sight before him. A massive dragon was flying high above them, blanketing them in shade and sending down crushing blasts of wind with each flap of its wings. Frigid winds drifted through its maw, capable of freezing them in the blink of an eye. Sharp claws no doubt able to tear effortlessly through stone and steel alike stretched and coiled threateningly, and razor-sharp teeth - far too many razor-sharp teeth - lined its jaws.

But what struck fear into his heart was that this dragon was completely skeletal.

Atop it, perched halfway up the spine near the base of the neck was a lich, though one not as large as Rage Winterchill, nor as magically powerful as far as he could sense. Interestingly, as the dragon's head swivelled about, surveying the scene below it, he caught sight of a large crack that ran along the top of the skull - one that must have been caused by a fairly large weapon, and a great deal of strength to penetrate the thick bone.

"I recognize that frostwyrm," growled a voice behind him, and he turned to see Torgus gazing up at the dragon - or frostwyrm, as he had called it - with a mix of horror and anger. "This cannot be...!"

"What is-?" Yulgash started to ask, but a loud voice, magically amplified, cut him off, echoing around the glade.

"I was not only right to investigate such a magical anomoly - I was lucky!" it boomed, with an icy edge that made Yulgash's blood run cold, "At first I thought simply sending my undead minions would be enough to take care of whatever isolated resistance was hiding out in the wilderness..."

As he continued to rant, Torgall sidled up to them. Yulgash noticed the skeleton warrior he had been fighting now lay in several pieces; evidently he had utilized its distraction to dispose of it.

"That damned thing talks to much," he growled, gesturing at the lich, "what is it, anyway?"

"It is a lich; a powerful spellcaster raised into undeath," Yulgash replied quickly.

"...and you even managed to slay my strongest champion!" the lich proclaimed, pointing at the skeletal warrior Torgall had defeated, "I put my strongest magical efforts into creating the finest undead warrior alive, if you'll excuse the pun-" The lich gave off a cackling hiss, "-cunning, swift, stronger than any orc... and you defeated it! But I suppose if you managed to slay me..."

Torgall frowned, eyeing the lich closely, before shouting up at the spellcaster, "I've slain many undead! What makes you so different?"

"You foiled my plans, orc," the lich hissed, "you and your cow-friends, and the elf... though I think most of the blame lies with those infernal furbolgs!"

At that, Torgus gasped, his mixed expression of horror and anger deepening to fear and loathing, and a look of dawning comprehension crossed Torgall's features.

"But I can see potential here, yes... You see, I took my rituals a step further! I did not use the life essences for my own, but instead imbued them within my undead champion! A number of powerful orcs and elves went into that one, but I see now... Absorbing all your strengths would provide even a more worthy warrior!"

"Nonnak," whispered Torgus, paling slightly. Yulgash raised his eyebrow at that - he'd seen the grizzled warrior crash through battle like a force of nature, yet here he was, clearly feared by this lich.

"I won't let that happen, Nonnak!" Torgall bellowed, "I'll _die _before I let it happen!"

"Yes, that's entirely the point," Nonnak replied sardonically; and with that, he struck.

The attack was so sudden Yulgash did not immediately react, but managed to summon up a magical barrier at the last moment - Nonnak's bolt of darkness exploded into a shower of dark purple sparks, raining down upon them.

"Get Lucethious out of the way!" he cried, waving his arms wildly. Torgall hesitated, clearly wishing to try and attack Nonnak, but reality quickly set in - the frostwyrm was still airborne, and he had no chance of retaliating. He nodded and scooped up the elf's seemingly lifeless form with surprising gentleness, depositing him safely in a cluster of trees at the glade's edge.

With his friend safely out of harms way, Yulgash could focus on combating Nonnak's spells. He still felt slightly drained from his encounters with Rage Winterchill and Anetheron, and then having to teleport himself, Belpep and Lucethious back to Azeroth, but his imp looked up at him determinedly, ready to assist. Bolstered by this knowledge, he focused his energies on the bone where the wing met the spine; a small explosion rocked the frostwyrm, and while the skeletal dragon itself was mostly unharmed, the lich riding it was nearly unseated; Nonnak gave a shout of surprise as the force destabilized him.

The lich's gaze focused upon the human, and at a command that could not be heard over the gusts of wind caused by the flapping of the wings, the frostwyrm dove. At the same time, the remaining undead resumed their assault on the group of orcs. Yulgash sprinted to the side as the frostwyrm swooped down towards him, the huge claws missing him by only a few feet; it crashed through the trees, causing a defeaning cacaphony of crunching and splintering wood.

As the frostwyrm banked, coming around for another pass, and Yulgash sensed Nonnak summoning another bolt of energy, this one aimed at him. Making up his mind quickly, he decided to utilize a technique Ansirem Runeweaver once taught them on basic magical duels - by relaxing the body and tempoarily closing off one's magical power, they would no longer conduct magic, allowing a magical attack to dissipate harmlessly off them.

At the same time, he was unsure if it would work on more powerful spells, but he had already made up his mind. Exhaling as the bolt of magic crackled towards him, he closed his eyes and let his limbs go limp, and slumped forward slightly. He heard Nonnak give a shrill cackle of delight, evidently convinced that the mage had simply given up - and felt as though a cool breeze was passing him. Opening his eyes slightly, he saw the wave of magic washing over him without any negative impacts whatsoever.

Over the roaring of the magic coursing past him, he could hear Nonnak give a scream of anger. Straightening up, he frowned, watching as the lich soared past him, instead lobbing explosive blasts of shadowy energy at the others. It struck him as odd that this lich had been unable to vanquish any of them yet; he was under the impression that they were the more powerful spellcasters in the Scourge's arsenal.

Unfortunately, Nonnak seemed to realize this as well. Gesturing at the frostwyrm, he gave another order swallowed by the sounds of battle, and they both descended, landing on the ground with a tremendous crash. The frostwyrm immediately took a swipe at Greshka, who was nearest; the orc dived to the side with a cry of surprise, while the zombies and ghouls that were advancing on her were sent flying.

Yulgash began running sideways - Nonnak was blocked by one of the frostwyrm's wings, and he needed a clear shot to dispose of lich. He was almost there when something more worrying caught his attention: Torgall had fallen to the ground, though apparently not from battling the Scourge - he was clutching his chest, and from between his fingers Yulgash could see a bright blue glow.

Changing direction, he ran for the fallen orc instead. Torgall was growling in pain, and gasping heavily as well. Yulgash could see a fine golden chain around his neck which disappeared under a leather tunic; it seemed that some kind of amulet was crippling the orc. Instinctively he reached for it, but as his fingers drew closer, a sharp, icy pain shot through his hand and he pulled it back. Torgall's eyes opened slightly, saw the human and shook his head before closing them once more.

* * *

It was Nonnak, back from the dead. Torgall could tell that much. Whatever he had done to raise himself or get himself raised, he couldn't care less - all he knew was that they needed to figure out a way to dispatch him before he had a chance to slay them all.

A blast of shadow energy flew towards them, but Yulgash countered it with a magical shield. Before Torgall had a chance to move, however, the human turned to him and cried, "Get Lucethious out of the way!"

He paused, wanting to attack the lich, but realized quickly that as long as he was airborne, that wasn't about to happen. Carefully, he picked up the prone, unconcious elf and ran to the edge of the glade, depositing him gently in what he hoped to be a protective cluster of trees. As he did so, Yulgash magically attacked Nonnak, and he could see that the human almost succeeded in unseating the lich. In retaliation, Nonnak commanded the frostwyrm to swoop down at the human, crashing through the trees; Torgall ducked as branches and splintered wood soared past him.

While Yulgash and Nonnak attempted to slay one another, the undead began attacking once more. Torgall glanced at the skeletal warrior - without its shield, and distracted by its master's arrival, he had been able to finally destroy it once and for all with a well-placed blow to the neck. The magic holding the bones had dissipated, but for good measure he kicked them apart, not wishing to risk it re-assembling itself.

Fortunately, the pieces were still lying harmlessly still, allowing him to focus on the rest of the undead. He weaved through the battle, cutting a ghoul down, bisecting a zombie, sinking his axe into a gargoyle attempting to ambush Valnok... all the while glancing at Nonnak warily. At one point the lich dropped a number of explosive blasts of energy upon them, but Torgall noticed that they seemed considerably weaker than other magic he had encountered - even Yulgash, a young mage, had produced far more powerful results.

Nonnak, too, seemed to arrive at this conclusion, and to Torgall's dismay, he ordered the frostwyrm to descend. They had their hands full with the undead as it was, but now to deal with the skeletal behemoth? He could see no way to victory now. Even if Yulgash succeeded in defeating the lich in magical combat, he doubted their combined might would be able to bring down the frostwyrm.

No sooner had this thought occured to him then a searing, freezing pain shot through his chest. He gasped, clutching at his armour, realizing that it was emanating from the amulet Sapph had given him! He stared in horror as a bright blue glow shone through his armour and hands, causing him to shut his eyes at the sight. He fell to his knees, then on to all fours, the agony crippling him utterly. Gasping and groaning in pain, he looked up and saw Yulgash had approached him, shocked and fearful at his sudden plight. Torgall shook his head - as he had no idea how to save himself as it was, he saw no sense in endangering the human.

He could hear Nonnak laughing shrilly, no doubt gleeful at the debilitating pain. Perhaps the lich was the cause of this? Perhaps he had sensed the amulet and was cursing it, causing Torgall to be crippled by unendurable cold... He could not tell. The blue glow was starting to cloud his vision now... he could see a strange, slender blue figure amidst it as well. Yulgash's form rotated slightly, though he could barely make out the human's features anymore beyond a vaguely humanoid shape. They both watched as the figure sprinted through the clearing, towards the... frostwyrm?

Nonnak had stopped laughing now. Indeed, his tone had gone from arrogant and confident to fearful and desparate. Through the haze of pain, something registered in Torgall's mind. He forced himself to look past the blue glow and saw the blue figure hacking apart the last of the undead as it ran towards Nonnak. The frostwyrm swiped at it, but the figure simply gracefully dodged the claw and leapt onto the back... Now it was running up the spine, ignoring Nonnak entirely, raising a long, glowing claymore.

Abruptly, the pain was gone. Torgall blinked, reeling slightly from the sudden change. He could see clearly now.

Sapph stood atop the frostwyrm, he runed claymore glowing blindingly bright. Nonnak was desparately shouting something at her, but she ignored him, instead plunging her weapon into the frostwyrm's skull, into the crack Torgus had inflicted far earlier. The skeletal dragon gave a short-lived roar before the skull _exploded_ in a blue shockwave, sending piercing shards of bone everywhere. Nonnak gave a scream as his own skeletal form was riddled with bone fragments, and he fell to the ground. Yulgash, for his part, erected magical shields around all of them - the bone shrapnel, rather than piercing them painfully, instead turning to dust as they passed the shimmering barriers.

Nonnak was struggling to raise himself from the ground, but the many bone shards that had torn through him clearly weakened the lich too greatly. An ominous creaking made him look up, as did all of them. The frostwyrm was teetering slightly, swaying on its four claws.

Nonnak gave a brief shriek as tonnes upon tonnes of bone cascaded upon him with a ground-shaking, thunderous crash.

As the dust cleared, Torgall looked about wildly, wondering where Sapph, their unexpected saviour, had gone to. Was she caught in the skull's explosion? Had she been crushed by the falling dragon? But no, from the thick cloud of dirt that had risen from the frostwyrm's fall, a slender, elven figure clutching a claymore emerged. Dust streaked her brilliant blue hair, but she had a wide grin on her face. They all stared at her, too shocked to speak, so it was she who broke the silence.

"When this is over," she said simply, "you all owe me a drink."


	38. Twilight of the Gods, part 6

**Chapter 38: Twilight of the Gods, part 6**

Torgall surveyed the carnage before him, still in mild shock at the sudden turn of events. A thick cloud of dust still hung over the spot where the frostwyrm had fallen, now a jumbled pile of thick bones. Somewhere underneath Nonnak was buried, presumably slain, and hopefully permanently this time. For good measure, he jerked his head at Yulgash, and the human nodded, understanding. As he turned away from the chanting human, he heard a rush of flame, and knew without having to look that the skeletal behemoth had erupted in flames.

For his part, Torgall did not thank Sapph immediately, but instead went over to the small group of trees where he had hidden Lucethious. To his relief, and mild surprise, the elf was virtually untouched. At some point during the hectic battle, one of the trees had been struck hard and splintered, but the branches had only scratched the elven mage without causing any real harm. He bent down and gently removed Lucethious from the makeshift shelter.

"How is he?" Yulgash asked without preamble, allowing the bones to burn behind them, instead hurrying up to see if his friend's condition had deteriorated further, but Torgall saw mild relief in the human's eyes as he saw that was not the case. With Lucethious' health secured for the moment, Torgall turned to Sapph.

"Thankyou," he said softly, "you saved me - us. All of us. None of us would be standing here now if you hadn't arrived when you did."

She gave another grin and simply replied, "I guess the necklace worked its magic then?"

"If by 'magic' you mean crippling me to the point of uselessness, then yes, it did," Torgall replied, not without a hint of annoyance. He was not ungrateful for her assistance, but he wished that she could have at least warned him about the necklace's effects. Something about his opinion must have shown in his face, however, and she answered accordingly.

"I already told you that I didn't know how it works," she said dismissively, if not a little defensively, "and besides, sometimes magic requires sacrifice. Evidently the amulet was using your life essence to fuel its power. Better to sacrifice one to save many. No offense," she added quickly.

Torgall grumbled slightly - he saw the reasoning and it was sound, but did not like it all the same. He had no issues with being the one having to be 'sacrificed' if it meant his friends continued to live, but he didn't like the idea of others possibly doing it for him in the future...

He was roused from his thinking by a loud growl to his side - Valnok had just gingerly applied some pressure to Bristlefur's wound, and the wyvern had apparently taken upbradge. However, the beast was now standing on all fours with a modicum of stability; apparently the injury had stopped troubling him to an extent.

"He's strong enough to move," the windrider declared, a slight amount of ease creeping into his face. "Hopefully we can get him back to the Horde base and get him treated."

"You'll want to move quickly then," Sapph said abruptly. They all looked at her, and she went on, "The Alliance base has fallen. The Legion and Scourge are moving up the mountainside as we speak... and constructing a new outpost on the remains of the Alliance soldiers."

"What?!" cried Yulgash, "How could they have fallen, we were holding strong, particularly with the assistance of the night elves-!"

Sapph shook her head. "Wish it were not so... unfortunately, shortly after the arrival of Anetheron, Archimonde himself advanced upon the base. He decimated the first line of defenders with but the flick of his hand. Lady Proudmoore recognized the inevitable doom, if you will, that he represented, and teleported the defenders away from the base. From what I and my rangers saw, she teleported herself as well before he could slay her. More out of frustration than anything, the demonlord levelled the entire base in the blink of an eye."

A rather shocked silence followed this explanation of the gruesome events that had taken place. If only to distract them from this uncomfortable news, Torgall groped about for a different topic.

"Where are your rangers, anyway?" he asked.

"Dead," she replied grimly, and he slumped slightly - her reply did nothing to alleviage the glum mood, "most of them, anyway. We came under attack from a large number of Scourge, led by demons, while patrolling the forests shortly after that. They cut down several of our number before we had any realization what was going on; half of us were dead by the time we'd struck back. I called for a hasty retreat when only a third of my squad remained standing."

"So why didn't you bring them?" said Torgus, puzzled.

"I didn't have a chance to tell them," she said. "We were in full flight from the slaughter when the amulet activated; I simply broke apart to come to your aid. I can only assume - can only hope - that they made it to the safety of the Horde stronghold."

"Then let us go and find out," urged Greshka. "Valnok, Bristlefur is able to move, yes?"

"I think so," he said, frowning slightly as he observed the wound, but a moment later he drew back, satisifed. "Yes, he should be able to make it."

"And what of my injured brethren?" asked Sapph, indicating Lucethious.

"I'll take him," said Torgall, bending down and yet again lifting the unconcious elf off the ground. Lucethious was so deathly still that he could have simply died without their realizing, but closer observation did show his chest rising and falling, however slightly.

"What exactly is wrong with him?" Sapph asked curiously as they left the glade, the smell of burning bone following them.

"I wouldn't mind knowing myself," growled Torgall, and judging by the expectant stares from the others, they, too, wished to hear an explanation.

"Very well," said Yulgash, taking a deep breath. He started from the beginning, explaining about their confrontation with Rage Winterchill, how they had both taken the fight to the lich, and how Yulgash exhausted himself incinerating the undead spellcaster with felfire. He went on to tell them about the second wave, being sure to mention the night elves' assistance, even the dryads; and of Anetheron's attack against them, not unlike how they had assaulted Winterchill, how he had personally attacked them in their own base.

His explanation came more disjointedly now as they pushed through the dense undergrowth in the vague direction of the Horde stronghold. He told them of the madness of the Twisting Nether, the insane barrage of colours and senses that constantly assaulted him; and how through all that, with Belpep's assistance, he managed to transport them back to Azeroth...

"...into the middle of the battle you were fighting," he concluded with a grunt, pushing aside a thick, low-hanging bough. "Belpep told me that an anchor would be needed to open a stable portal on Azeroth, so I used sympathetic resonance again... it seemed to do the trick, but I didn't expect to find you halfway through a fight. My bad, then."

"Well, your arrival was most timely. While it's still Sapph who takes the credit for our survival, there wouldn't have been anyone to save to begin with if you hadn't distracted Nonnak," Torgall said appreciatively, swinging his axe in a large arc to clear some of the thick vegetation, though not without difficulty, given he was still carrying Lucethious. Greshka was doing likewise with her longblades, while Torgus simply walked clean through him, the branches snapping off under the pressure of his immense bulk. Sapph, Yulgash, Bristlefur and Valnok were bringing up the rear, the first three unable to reliably overcome the natural obstacles, with Valnok too concerned about Bristlefur's wellbeing to be clearing a path.

"With the Alliance out of the way, I suppose it's the Horde's turn to make a stand," growled Torgus, throwing a grin behind him. "Show those demons what we're made of."

Next to Yulgash, Belpep fidgeted, though whether he was uncomfortable from Torgus' comment or simply unable to remain still, as usual, Torgall could not tell.

"I claim the first felhound kill," proclaimed Greshka, her lips curling around her short tusks.

"No complaints from me..." Yulgash muttered, and they laughed.

"Do you suspect the Horde would already be under attack?" asked Torgus, directing the question to Sapph. She merely shrugged.

"Our enemy can move swiftly when it wants to," she admitted, "but I doubt the bulk of their main forces will have arrived yet... more likely that some skirmishers have arrived to scout out the defenses."

"Won't our own scout patrols have stopped them?" asked Greshka, frowning.

"Unlikely," replied Sapph, "now that the Alliance base has fallen, I suspect your warchief has been informed that they'll need every available hand to defend, and recalled everyone to the stronghold through... whatever means your people use."

"And so why haven't we been recalled?" Torgus asked, frowning.

"Because we're presumed dead," Greshka reminded him, to which Sapph nodded.

"We'll be nearing the stronghold shortly," interjected Torgall, holding his axe in anticipation. He shrugged slightly to adjust Lucethious' weight, if only to avoid slamming the mage's drooping head into a tree trunk.

From behind them, Valnok opened his mouth to speak, but before any words were formed, a deep, rough horn sounded, one that confused the orc, along with Yulgash and Sapph. For Torgall, Torgus and Greshka, however, they grinned.

"Sounds like Fenris isn't wasting any time..." said Torgus, though their smiles faded a moment later - that could only mean that the Scourge had begun their advance.

They pushed aside the last cluster of foliage blocking their progress to behold the Horde stronghold below them; it was situated in an almost valley-like shape from either side, though the slopes were gentle, and they were barely ten metres high at the top. At the tops of either side of this small valley were thick forests, not unlike the one they had just pushed through; the Horde stronghold was situated firmly in the middle of the clear, dirt road that provided the only unhindered trail up the mountain. Before the stronghold was the road leading down, back towards the Alliance base - what remained of it - though at one point it split and reconnected around a dense cluster of trees. Thrall had deemed it strategically important, as the split would cause the Scourge and Legion to break up their forces to go around - unless they simply cut it down.

Currently the Scourge, only a small attack force, was advancing towards the base - a number of ghouls, zombies, skeletons and a handful of cultists as well. Standing before the base were two lone tauren, but Torgall recognized them instantly: Fenris' wolfhead pauldron and Kunasha's living staff. His stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch - where was the rest of his tribe? Surely they had not all been slain?

No sooner had this thought occured to him when yet more tauren, all bearing the mark of the Direhoof tribe, filed out of the base, armed with various heavy weapons - mammoth claymores, enormous battleaxes, warhammers the size of an orc, or simply totems like their chieftain's signiature weapon. Currently, Fenris' totem was slung over his back, and his warriors were waiting silently behind him, making no effort to protect their chieftain from the oncoming invaders - this struck Torgall as particularly odd.

Fenris himself stood at the forefront with Kunasha close behind - from what they could see, the former was standing, one thick arm raised, and chanting, wreathes of lightning crackling about him. Greshka muttered something about his eyes glowing, as well - they could only take hers and Sapph's words on that, however, as the distance was too far for the rest of them to tell. Kunasha, meanwhile, as standing serenely behind him, as if there for company, or to watch him do... what?

An ominous rumble was their answer. They all stumbled in surprise as the earth shook, threatening to upend them. The Scourge, too, staggered about abruptly, the cultists looking around in startlement and, to Torgall's satisfaction, fear. For their part, he and his companions around curiously, their eyes settling on Fenris and his tribe - the only ones still standing firmly. Fenris, completely unpeturbed by this, was still chanting, the lightning around him crackling even more strongly.

Again, the earth quaked, violently this time. They were at least prepared this time, however, and grabbed nearby trees for support, though Torgall was not permitted that luxury, as he was more focused on not dropping Lucethious. The Scourge, on the other hand, all fell into a heap of rotting flesh and bones, all squabbling and struggling to get back to their feet. Now Torgall spotted something new - cracks were rapidly forming beneath the attackers, though they were so distracted they hadn't even noticed the impending attack.

The earth shook a third time, bringing them to their knees even as they clung to the tree trunks, and this time, Fenris unleashed his devastating attack. Beneath the Scourge, the earth heaved and buckled, rocks and dirt churning below their feet. A number of zombies and skeletons disappeared from sight as the crevices expanded and widened, whereupon they were buried underneath mounds of dirt and stone. One of the cultists gave a short-lived scream that was barely audible over the grinding and rumbling; a clatter of bones rattled out as some of the skeletons futilely attempted to pull themselves from the hungering earth. It churned upwards, literraly _eating_ the Scourge that stood upon it, pulling them beneath the ground, dragging them underneath tonnes of dirt, stone and rubble.

With one last shudder, the earth finally stilled.

The group glanced at one another in shock, the silence hanging in the air like a blanket muffling all sound. Where there had been a number of Scourge - a simple souting or skirmishing party, but a formidable attack force nonetheless - there was now only a large pile of stones, rock and dirt. A cloud of dust hung over the dirt road on which they had been walking, though it was not thick enough to obscure the odd bone, rotting arm or tattered piece of robe protruding from the rubble.

Tentatively, they all let go of the trees they had been clutching, and akwardly began to walk down the slope leading to the bank, their legs still quite wobbly from Fenris' spell. They were sure to walk slowly and openly, partly because they could hardly walk straight after the quake, but more to allow themselves to be easily identified from afar - it would do them no good to be shot by a jittery sentry mistaking them for Scourge or Legion. Fenris was standing and breathing heavily, stretching his thick arms and broad chest, but caught sight of them as they approached, his face breaking into a broad grin.

"You saw the fury of the Earthmother then?" he said gruffly, gesturing at the pile of rubble that marked the remains of the Scourge attack force. "She has purged these unholy aberrations from her sacred lands."

"It's good to see you're still doing well," Torgall said, clapping the tauren on the arm. Fenris' smile faded slightly.

"Alas, a number of my longrunners were killed while patrolling the forests for signs of the Scourge," he said heavily, "but several still made it back, healthy and whole. They alerted me to those ones," he added, again indicating the rubble, "which allowed me ample time to request aid from the Earthmother and the elements." He grinned a second time. "They granted it."

"So I see," said Torgall, impressed. "Unfortunately, your longrunners may not have been scouting far down enough the mountain to learn the less welcome news - the Alliance base has fallen. The Scourge and Legion march towards us even now."

Fenris' eyes widened slightly, but he nodded to his tribe - without a word, they silently began to take up defensive positions along the heavy wooden fence that surrounded the Horde stronghold. Kunasha, meanwhile, strode calmy up to her mate, ever ready.

"We must be sure that our commanders are preparing," she said softly. "But... what is the matter with him?" she asked, frowning at Lucethious, who was still slung over Torgall's shoulder. Torgall started - he had completely forgotten the elf in the wake of Fenris' elemental earthquake.

"He has been magically incapacitated by a great deal of magical energy. When trying to negate a powerful spell with one of his own, he inadvertedly acted as a conduit for the magic, which was absorbed into being and is suppressing his conciousness," explained Yulgash. "We need some way to remove that magic, which will either restore him to his previous health or..." He swallowed. "...kill him."

"Hmm... I might have a solution," offered Fenris. They looked at him hopefully. "The path of a shaman allows me to purge unnatural - arcane - magic, which we tauren, and the Kaldorei as well, find abhorrent." Yulgash looked mildly affronted, but did not interrupt. "I may be able to remove this magic from his being, allowing him to return to the physical world."

"May I make a request, shaman?" Valnok asked suddenly. Fenris bade him to speak, and he nodded thankfully. "I understand those of your stature - among both your people and mine - are capable of performing healing feats. My mount was injured while fighting the Scourge-"

"You need say no more," interrupted Kunasha. "Come, I shall tend to your wyvern... the Earthmother will not allow one of her noble creatures to suffer... Though I see you have already begun the healing process," she added, her mouth twitching as she surveyed the bandage over the wound with some satisfaction, before leading the mount away to where a number of animals were stabled.

"My thanks," said Valnok appreciatively. "In that case, I'll go on ahead to be sure our warchief and the others are preparing our defenses accordingly."

When none of them objected, he nodded and raised his weapon in salute, then strode purposefully away to the great hall where Thrall, Cairne, Vol'jin and the other commanders resided.

"In that case, let us see what we can do for your friend," Fenris said, walking towards the far side of the base. Torgall, Torgus, Greshka, Yulgash and Sapph followed him curiously, Torgall still holding Lucethious carefully. Fenris led them to a large tent on the opposite end of the stronghold, one with a number of strange ritual circles and altars for burning incense and herbs outside. The tauren held the flap of the tent open and they entered one by one, with Fenris now bringing up the rear - he gestured for Torgall to lay Lucethious down on a simple straw mattress, one with a contrasting silk pillow.

As Torgall straightened, he looked about curiously. He recalled little of his younger years, but he did not remember the shamans of his clan - or any other clans, for that matter - having such richly decorated abodes, and by the looks of Greshka and Torgus, neither did they. Amongst several well-crafted tables and chairs, there were shelves and arrangements all around the cloth and leather tent, each stacked and assorted with peculiar and exotic ritual items - incense and herbs like the ones outside, poultices, herbal remedies and potions, both foul- and sweet-smelling concoctions and foods, strange, if not eerie ritualistic objects... a horned skull, a necklace of jagged bones, carved wooden idols, scrolls marked with a language he could not decipher.

Sapph seemed fairly disinterested by all these curios and artifacts, but Yulgash was positively engrossed. He went from one item to another, giving off little grunts and gasps of surprise and amazement. He waved his hands over some items, murmuring strange words under his breath, though with no visible effect. At one point he hesitantly picked up the horned skull, only to drop it with a yelp, pulling his fingers back as though they had been burned. In another incident, he reached for a stone and wooden fetish, inset with a gem glowing a sickly green, but inches from contact Fenris seized him by his outstretched wrist, though with a surprisingly gentle grip for one with hands large enough to crush the human's skull.

"Unless you wish to have your soul trapped for an eternity to be used by voodoo priests, I wouldn't recommend that course of action," he said with a grim smile; Yulgash desisted from his probing of the shamanistic items from then on.

"I do not recall our shamans using so many different reagents and magical objects," Torgus said, prodding a withered and spindly branch - it abruptly burst into full bloom, the wood flushing from a dead grey to a healthy and full greenish-brown.

"Only a small number of these belong to the orcs," replied Fenris. "Most of these items come from my people and our tribes, or from the voodoo priests, witch doctors and shadow hunters of the Darkspear trolls."

"I wonder which ones," muttered Greshka with a smirk. Fenris seemed unconcerned by the troll fetishes, carvings and strange idols, instead reaching for a bundle of sweet scented incense, a stick of holly, a seemingly plain piece of cloth, a rough yet beautifully hewn totem and a number of other items which were clearly of tauren origin.

"Normally a purge is a simple spell granted by the element of air," he explained as he gathered up all the items, humming a tuneless song to himself as he did so, "but for a magical concentration of this magnitutde... well, as they say, a spiritual problem requires a spiritual solution..."

Bringing a bowl filled with strange flower petals over to Lucethious' side, he sprinkled them over the almost lifeless body; as they drew closer and closer, they wilted and withered until the elf was littered with dried and desiccated petals.

"Powerful magic indeed..." the tauren murmured. He stretched and took a deep, steadying breath, as though bracing himself, before looking at them with a glint in his eyes.

"Well... let us begin."


	39. Twilight of the Gods, part 7

**Chapter 39: Twilight of the Gods, part 7 **

Torgall watched with interest, and not a little bit of pride, as the machines of war were rolled steadily into position, with grunts on flanking them on either side, armed and armoured to the teeth - weapons of all types with mixtures of leather, chain and even platemail. A number of shamans were convening outside of the tent, paying tribute to the elements to secure their assistance in the upcoming battle. The tauren were predominant, but several were also orcs as well. A cluster of voodoo priests and witch doctors were slightly off to the side, performing some dark ritual to augment their own magic.

A pack of wolfriders plodded past, their mounts' enormous paws leaving deep tracks in the ground. Windriders circled overhead, with a few batriders amongst them as well. No one was particularly sure where the trolls had acquired such strange mounts, but there was no questioning their results - the almost insane trolls were quite adept at lobbing volatile concoctions and fluids at the enemy, setting them aflame.

Assembling outside the gates behind the wolfriders, grunts and tauren from every tribe were several lines of headhunters and archers, their spears and bows ready to be hurled and fired with deadly accuracy. Dotted here and there amongst the Horde warriors was the odd Alliance soldier, as well; those who had fled the Alliance base but were ready to continue the fight here - Torgall admired and respected their tenacity and dedication.

He turned away from the rhythmic pounding of war drums that drove the warriors on relentlessly, re-entering the tent. Fenris had almost completed his preparations for the ritual now - he had draped the cloth over Lucethious, taking meticulous care to ensure that it was placed squarely over the elf's chest; the incense was placed either side, though currently unlit; the carved totem was sitting beside Fenris, immobile and unremarkable, and Fenris himself was carrying the stick of holly. There were other items, as well, some easily distinguishable, though with a purpose Torgall could not discern, and others less so, to which he chose to pay no heed.

"Everything is in order," the tauren rumbled, "we may now begin the rit-"

He paused as the tent flap opened - they all looked around to see Kunasha sidling in, a warm smile on her features.

"It is done," she proclaimed, "the mount is healed, and already prepared to rejoin the battle."

"Excellent," Torgall said, "with one of our number healed, we just need to do likewise with the other..."

He nodded at Fenris, who nodded back and turned to Lucethious. They all watched in anticipation, save Kunasha, who was no doubt familiar with such things.

First, Fenris lifted his right paw, the one clutching the holly, and turned his left so that the palm faced upward. He murmured something inaudible, and a small flame crackled into life upon the meaty hand. They all looked at it in surprise, but it was causing no apparent harm to the tauren. Still muttering words of power, he lowered the flame-covered paw to the totem - the elemental fire snaked from his palm into a hollowed-out section on the side of the totem, where it crackled merrily to itself.

Next, Fenris carefully lowered the holly, still chanting the inaudible words to himself, lighting it in the flames. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell over the tent - it was as though he had brought nighttime around them. Unpeturbed by this display, Fenris continued to softly repeat the words to himself and lifted the holly to light the incense, before raising it into the air, where he drew it about in an intricate pattern above the unmoving elf. The smoke hung in the shape he drew, but did not fade, instead lingering in the air above them.

"He has summoned the elements to his side," Kunasha said in a soft whisper, causing Torgall to jump - he was so transfixed by the ritual that he hadn't noticed her sit down beside him. "Now he is appeasing them to ask for their aid. They will respond, and will likely agree - but they may also refuse their aid..."

"What, so- he might not be cured?" asked Yulgash, who had overheard her.

"It is unlikely they will not lend their considerable powers," Kunasha reassured him gently, "but we must always be aware of these possibilities..."

With that, she fell silent. Torgall stared at her quizzically for a few more moments, but when it became apparent she was not going to shed any further light on the situation, he turned back to Fenris - and gasped.

Just as he looked back at Fenris and Lucethious, both of them became wreathed in crackling lightning. He was not the only one shocked at the spectacle - Torgus, Greshka and Yulgash all cried out in alarm, and even Sapph gave a little grunt of surprise. The bolts of lightning snaked around the two, hovering inches above them, but never actually making contact.

"They have agreed," said Kunasha, "my mate can be quite persuasive with the elements..."

The lightning continued to dance about with an almost etheral beauty; Torgall felt himself yearning to touch it, but in the back of his mind he knew that was a foolish idea - there was no doubt that doing so would disrupt the ritual, and there was no telling what kind of damage the elemental bolts could cause. Fenris was still repeating the same chant over and over, but by now his voice had risen enough that Torgalll could clearly hear what he had been saying all this time:

"_Rah eche poalo ki akiticha wa alo porah wa kichalo mucah. Rah eche taisha ki sechalo wa isha ahmen wa ishne'alo. Rah alo abalo wa alo owatanka nahe tawa alo halo abalo; rah alo sho'wa wa alo Shtumanialo shteawa alo a'ke hale._"

Torgall looked at Kunasha questioningly, and she smiled, chuckling slightly at his confusion.

"_Mucah_ - magic; _kichalo_ - demonic; _ishne'alo_ - unnatural; _Shtumanialo_ - Earthmother; _a'ke_ - pure," she explained, defining several of the terms that Fenris had put extra emphasis on. "Though some words have more than one meaning, not unlike your own language. _Owatanka_, for example, means elements, but it can also refer to elemental things, such as bluebolt - blue lightning, in your tongue."

She nodded to the very lightning continuing to snake around the tauren and the elf. Torgall noticed that Lucethious was glowing a faint blue now, as well, though whether this was a trick of the light emitted by the electricity, he could not tell.

Abruptly, Lucethious gave a groan - though one of pain, not of grogginess or sleepiness usually assosciated with one returning to the waking world. His back arched slightly, his head lolling to the side, and his arms twitched convulsively. The cloth on his chest slipped slightly, but otherwise remained in place. Yulgash instinctively reached out to his mentor, but stopped short of coming in contact with the ritual itself. Fenris made no move to stop him, but Torgall doubted he could actually see - his demeanour clearly marked him as being in a trance, and his eyes glowed an electric blue, obscuring all vision.

Again, Lucethious cried out in pain, louder this time. His body rolled onto his side, though curiously, the cloth Fenris had earlier placed upon him held fast, as if it were adhered to the robes. His hands started to wave about, though never touching the lightning, which moved with him, a glowing, crackling net that flowed about his body. The elf continued to moan and shout in pain, the cloth on his chest beginning to glow.

The cloth was not the only thing glowing - the strange blue hue that Torgall had seen earlier began to change, at first a mild tint, before suddenly completely engulfing the elf in a sickly, evil green glow - Yulgash gave a gasp of recognition, and Torgall immediately recognized it as fel magic. Lucethious was still giving off cries of pain, but whether from the ritual or the magic being unleashed through his body, they could not tell.

Without warning, a rush of wind entered the tent. Torgall glanced over his shoulder, wondering if something otuside was causing it, but the flap remained closed - it seemed that Fenris had somehow summoned a small hurricane amongst them. As the air coursed over them, there was a flurry of crackles and buzzing as the lightning began to leap outwards; Sapph and Torgus, who had both been leaning in interestedly, jumped back in surprise, but the electricity never made contact with either them nor Fenris or Lucethious.

While they themselves were unharmed, Lucethious did not seem to be faring better - he was thrashing about wildly now, and positively screaming in agony. Torgall flinched slightly; the elf was clearly in unendurable pain. Yulgash, too, was staring in nothing short of horror, his face chalk-white. However, he did not interfere, either understanding the need to restrain himself or that this was part of the ritual, or perhaps both.

Torgall was just beginning to wonder how much longer Lucethious would have to endure this when the elf's head snapped back, his eyes flew open, and his mouth hung open in a silent scream. No sound whatsoever permeated the room beyond the crackling of the electricty and the wind ruffling their hair. Fenris was no longer chanting now, but instead holding the holly in the air, staring straight ahead, the lightning still covering his eyes. Torgall noticed that the green glow no longer encompassed Lucethious, but was now focused entirely on the piece of cloth placed upon his chest.

No sooner had he realized that when the elf suddenly slumped, the lightning dissipated, the rush of the air ceased. Fenris blinked, his eyes adjusting, the holly burnt to a stub and held, almost foolishly, in the air. Lucethious was lying on his back, his breath coming in quick, short gasps, but it was already beginning to slow. When his breathing was at last steady, his eyes fluttered open.

"Where... am I?" he whispered cautiously, looking about half-curiously, half-worriedly.

"Be at peace, friend," Fenris said in low tones, "you have just had a great deal of magic purged from your being... your mind is still coming to terms with the sudden removal of magic."

Lucethious stared at him blankly, apparently not understanding. His eyes scanned the tent until they fell upon Yulgash.

"Yulgash!" he gasped, struggling to push himself into a sitting position, but he fell back with a groan, "what's happened?"

"A great many things... not all will be easy to hear," the human replied, before half-glancing at the others. "Could you leave us? Lucethious' mind is likely still quite disoriented, and it will probably be easier with fewer people..."

They each nodded respectfully, though as they were leaving, Yulgash spoke again.

"Fenris... if I may... what has happened to this?"

Torgall turned, as did Fenris: Yulgash was holding up the piece of cloth. To the orc's surprise, the green glow had not faded entirely, and the cloth shimmered with a light green hue.

"The cloth absorbed the demonic magic as it tried to escape," the tauren explained, "had it not been there, it would have erupted into the tent, harming or possibly killing us. It is now stored in the cloth that you hold." He hesitated before continuing. "Normally I would dispose of it at the earliest available moment, but there is no questioning that there is powerful magic now enchanted into that cloth... Needless to say, if you could find a use for it..."

He broke off, apparently unable to bring himself to condone the use of utilizing demonic magic. With a shrug and a nod to the human and elf, he turned to leave.

"Fenris... thankyou," Yulgash said. The tauren glanced back with a slight smile before leaving; Torgall followed him.

"That was an impressive display of shamanism," he said as soon as they were out of earshot. Again, the tauren smiled.

"The elements were careful in their deliberation," Fenris replied. "While for you and your friends it may have seemed like but a heartbeat, for me it was more like an hour... they were cautious before passing judgement."

"Why?" asked Torgall, confused. "Could they not see that a being was in need?"

"Yes... but a being that used unnatural magic. Arcane magic is... foreign to the elements," Fenris said, struggling to explain the concept to the orc. "It is difficult for those who are not shaman to understand. Needless to say, they understood the need in the end... though not without my help," he added with a slight smirk.

"Yes, Kunasha mentioned-" Torgall started as they rounded the gates, then stopped, dumbstruck by the sight.

Line after line of grunts were assembled before the stronghold, flanked on either side by wolfriders and huge beasts of burden atop which orcs thumping war drums were mounted. Mixed among the grunts were a variety of warriors, both trollish and tauren - he could see Fenris' tribe amongst them. Behind them were the headhunters and archers, and behind them in turn, nearest the gates, were the war machines - mostly catapults and the like. A shadow loomed overhead, and he glanced up to see one of the windriders circling above them.

While he had seen them all preparing earlier, he could not deny that he was still shocked at how impressive and imposing the sight was. He turned to see what Fenris' reaction was, only to see the tauren striding away to his tribe, where Kunasha was already waiting. He glanced about and spotted Greshka testing her bow, standing with the archers; Rakaji twirling one of his spears and chatting with a fellow headhunter quite nonchalantly for one about to face legions of undead; and Torgus at the forefront, standing stoic and ready, one hand on the maul slung over his back. Sapph was nowhere to be seen.

Figuring the ranger had gone off to locate her comrades, Torgall wove his way to the front lines. Greshka smiled at him as he passed, and Rakaji grinned and waved, while Fenris and Kunasha both gave him encouraging nods. He pulled his axe to the ready as he joined Torgus.

"You have blood on your armour," the older orc noted as he saw his younger friend at his side. Torgall looked down in surprise, then remembered the wound he had suffered on his arm while fighting the skeletal warrior. At some point it had clotted and stopped bleeding, but he had completely forgotten about it in the wake of Nonnak's arrival, and then tending to Lucethious.

"So I do," he replied, unable to think of anything to say. Torgus gave a short grunt of amusement, then continued staring into the distance, taking a deep breath through his nose.

"They'll be here soon," he muttered. Torgall looked at him questioningly, and he elaborated, "I can feel it - in my gut, mostly. Instinct... they won't keep us waiting."

Torgall tilted his head slightly, but the older orc did not say any more, so he instead looked about at the assembled forces. The shamans, both orc and tauren, and witch doctors and voodoo priests were joining them now, taking up positions behind the protective line of archers and headhunters. A number of peons were also with them, clambering up and around the siege engines, ready to operate them.

"Scout patrol approaching!" one of the sentries in the towers shouted. Torgall snapped his head back around, squinting to see the enemy. Indeed, a number of undead, not unlike the previous ill-fated patrol that had been disposed of by Fenris, was speeding towards them - ghouls and skeletons were running full-pelt at the stronghold, though why they were so eager to rush headlong into the fully-armed and armoured warriors before them, Torgall could not fathom.

Without warning, a series of explosions went up, engulfing the fast-approaching undead in a cloud of flame, dirt and stone. Torgall drew back slightly in surprise, though the clods of dirt fell far short of the stronghold. Even from the distance he could easily see a handful of ghouls staggering about aimlessly before collapsing into a heap of burning flesh; on the contrary, several others were flung high into the air and came crashing down, literally splattering upon impact.

"Guess they worked well!" chirruped a shrill voice gleefully, causing Torgall to jump. He looked down to see Gaznok Oilwrench had silently sidled up next to him to watch the carnage ensue.

"Where did you- never mind," he said, shaking his head, then pointed out to where the smoke and dust was clearing, "that was your doing, then?"

"Yup!" squeaked the goblin, "Goblin land mines, my specialty. I placed them well out of range, at the very forefront - once the Scourge and Legion clear the minefield, they'll come in range of your archers and headhunters, so you'll all be able to engage them safely without worrying about setting them off yourselves."

Torgall raised his eyebrows at this; it was particularly tactically sound. He assumed that the goblin hadn't thought of the plan himself, but had likely been assisted by the commanders.

As if magicked into being by that thought, the leaders of the Horde began to emerge from the great hall - at the forefront, resplendent in the black plate armour of Orgrim Doomhammer and carrying the former warchief's legendary weapon, was Thrall. His blue eyes constantly surveyed the scene before him, ever-alert for any signs of attack, as he mounted his large black wolf.

Shortly behind him was Nazgrel, hefting an enormous axe and wearing a full set of chain and leather armour, complete with a wolf-head mask that reminded Torgall of Fenris' shoulder armour. The burly orc, large by his people's standards, stood staunchly by his warchief as he waited for Thrall to mount and lead his people to battle.

Flanking both Nazgrel and Thrall were Vol'jin and Cairne Bloodhoof. The troll shadow hunter looked quite intimidating with his tribal carved pauldrons, decorated with warpaint, feathers and other odd items, and a wooden tribal mask that partly covered his mane of bright orange hair, though whether he wore it for protection or simply to accentuate the look, Torgall could not tell. He carred a thin but deadly double-ended sword, and also wore a string of bones as a necklace.

Cairne, by contrast, looked quite serene and at peace, which clashed with the troll's spiritual tension, or the orcs' warmonger appearance. He held his huge warblade with little effort, gazing about calmly. It was strange, Torgall thought, that a huge being that could practically radiate power managed to look almost meek and harmless.

As Cairne moved to the side, his huge bulk blocking the entry into the great hall, a female human exited after him. A moment later Torgall recognized her as Jaina Proudmoore. He frowned to himself, wondering what the mage was doing here. After glancing to be sure the Scourge or Legion were not about to suddenly engage, he casually pushed his way back through the assembled defenders, pretending to be checking his equipment before the battle, allowing him to eavesdrop inconspicuously.

"...but Anetheron wasn't able to be defeated," Jaina was saying apologetically, "it's likely that he'll be leading the first charge alongside Azgalor, the pit lord - he was arriving alongside Archimonde while the base was being overrun."

Torgall lifted up his axe, pretending to check it for nicks or blunting, but he was actually listening keenly. Thrall grunted, eyes still swivelling about, before saying, "Any sign of the doomguard leader? Kaz... something?"

"Kaz'rogal?" Jaina said faintly, running a hand through her hair distractedly, "No, we didn't see him... Archimonde might be saving him until the final stages of the assault." She drew herself up, as if coming out of a reverie. "I'm sorry, you'll all have to excuse me... teleporting the surviving defenders from the base was quite draining. I'll need some time to recuperate if I'm going to do likewise for your warriors; I apologize for being unable to assist in the defense."

Torgall was now running a whetstone along the axehead, slowly enough that the grinding wouldn't drown out their conversation, but far too slow to actually benefit the axe in any way.

"It is of no concern, Lady Proudmoore," Thrall said gruffly, before continuing in a slightly gentler tone, "go and rest. The Alliance has done its part - now it is time for the Horde to make its stand. I shall see you after..."

His voice trailed off - evidently he didn't want to give the false hope of survival. He cleared his throat and nodded to her, and she gave a wan smile before teleporting away in a flash of violet light. Torgall held the axe up a second time, surveying it as though checking to see if the axe was acceptable, and then slung it back over his shoulder, thinking about what he had overheard.

There would be two demons leading the charge - at least, that was to be expected. That could press the defenders significantly. Another demon was yet to arrive, though was presumed to being held back... and they would have little aid from the Alliance, apart from the few soldiers that were making another stand alongside the Horde. He could hardly blame them, of course, but it seemed clear that the Horde would have to hold the demons alone. Unless the night elves gave their assistance; that, or he could ask Meilosh to help... but he had already discussed a different plan with the furbolg.

No, the Horde would face the demons and undead alone, just as the Alliance did. Face the innumerable shambling corpses, the flaming, savage monsters, the unthinkable horrors that sought to tear their world apart...

Torgall grinned. He could hardly wait.

_Author's note: I apologize for the lateness on this chapter, I recently had some personal issues (university and otherwise) that set me back a fair bit. University is still cutting into my time, but the other issue should be out of my hair now. On the other hand, my parents have gone to France for a holiday, leaving me and my sis to watch over the house, so... that could also delay me. Hopefully not by much... Anyway! I've rambled enough. Sorry for the delay =P_


	40. Twilight of the Gods, part 8

**Chapter 40: Twilight of the Gods, part 8**

The Scourge and Legion didn't keep them waiting for long.

Torgall watched eagerly, and with a hint of apprehension, as the shambling corpses, clattering skeletons and shadowy necromancers and cultists filled the dirt paths before them, with a number of demons mixed in as well. Gargoyles flapped about in the skies above them, and strange, wispy ghosts of elven women hovered inches off the ground. The meat wagons were creaking in the back lines, mixed with skeletal archers and magi.

For several long minutes, both sides simply stared at each other, making no move to attack. Torgall gripped his axe tightly, ready to sink it into rotting flesh or cleave through bone. Torgus stood next to him, still standing stock-still, maul in one hand. Orc, troll and tauren warrior alike surrounded them, along with the occasional human, elf or dwarf. All had looks of tension, concentration or eagerness; Torgall felt a mix of all.

The ghouls, zombies and skeletons began to fan out now, spreading their forces to engulf the defenders when they attacked. From behind them, further down the mountain, Torgall could see a tall grey demon, the one Jaina Proudmoore called Anetheron, and which Yulgash had called a dreadlord. Alongside him was an enormous reptilian demon, one which he immediately knew to be a pit lord, the same demon as Mannoroth that Thrall and Grom Hellscream had slain. This one would have to be Azgalor. The demon commanders did not advance, however, instead remaining in the back lines passively, surveying the scene before them.

After a few moments of this, Anetheron raised a clawed hand and gestured almost lazily towards the stronghold.

At his unspoken command, the first line of skeletons and ghouls charged forward, weapons raised or simply ready to rend flesh with claws and teeth. Torgall grinned, feeling the war drums pound to the beat of his heart.

"Archers and headhunters, at the ready!" Thrall bellowed from behind, and Torgall heard the stretching of bowstrings and the grinding of hunting spears scraping against each other.

As Torgall expected, the first wave of undead were engulfed by a sudden wall of flame - Gaznok's landmines wiped out the entire attacking platoon. A second wave did likewise, running carelessly into another line of the deadly hidden bombs. The third, however, proceeded unhindered.

"Fire!" shouted Thrall, and Torgall heard a sharp whistling as almost a hundred arrows and javelins soared high into the air, a great wall of metal of and wood, before coming crashing down onto the Scourge. The undead dropped in droves, riddled with small shafts, else impaled by entire lengths of metal.

"Raiders - attack!" Thrall roared. The wolfriders immediately charged forward, their enormous mounts shaking the very earth as their paws pounded along the earth. The mounted warriors cut a swathe through the advancing Scourge, their huge warblades cleaving clean through flesh and bone. They charged effortlessly through the third and fourth waves of undead before doubling around and retreating before the subsequent attackers could reach them.

"Now is the time to purge these aberrations from our lands!" cried Cairne Bloodhoof, "For the tribes!"

"Rend dere rottin' flesh, my brethren!" shouted Vol'jin, "For da Darkspere trolls!"

"My warriors, now we strike back at the demons who enslaved and damned us!" bellowed Thrall over the cheering warriors, "_For the Horde!_"

A resounding bellow of "For the Horde!" answered his cry as orc, tauren and troll all rushed foward, eager for bloodshed, ready to crush the Scourge. Torgall heard the heavy _fwoom-fwoom-fwoom_ as the catapults and demolishers behind them fired, flinging massive boulders, some burning, into the ranks of Scourge before them. Another volley of arrows and spears rained down before the defenders, impaling and decimating another wave of Scourge, along with a few demons that had entered the fray.

As he looked around, he saw Thrall urging his mount forward, Doomhammer raised; Cairne was sprinting towards the battle with an incredible speed for one so old; Vol'jin had his blade raised, chanting a dark incantation to summon his shadow hunter skills; Nazgrel had rushed ahead of the others, mammoth axe raised and ready to crush any that stood in his way; he could even see Akinos, the old but lithe blademaster dancing gracefully amongst the attackers, slicing flesh and bone in the blink of an eye.

And then they were upon him. Torgall gave a bellow of fury as he brought his axe cleaving through a skeleton's skull, then yanked the weapon back, kicking out at a nearby zombie; a moment later a troll warrior impaled it with his spear. He ran forward and slammed his girth into a ghoul, sending it tumbling to the ground - he brought his axe down onto its neck, the keen blade cutting easily through the rotting flesh and sinew.

To his left he saw Fenris battling with an unbridled fury, crushing the Scourge with his huge totem. He blinked - in that moment, he saw the spectral form of Awakeeahmenalo burst forth, erupting from the totem with an echoing howl. To his surprise, the spirit wolf did not simply phase through the attackers, but physically attacked them, the ghostly jaws just as deadly as a living wolf.

Near Fenris was Kunasha, tending to both her mate and other Direhoof warriors; she augmented their abilities with her natural magic, instilling the fury of nature and the wild into the warriors, driving them to feats of incredible strength - one of the tauren literally punched one of the ghouls so forcefully it was sent spiralling into several other undead, upon which Kunasha summoned gale-force winds to pin them to the ground, leaving them easy targets for the mass of warriors battling about them.

His moment of inattentiveness did him no good - he felt a sharp pain in his leg and cried out, glancing down. A ghoul, its legs severed, was attempting to gnaw through the leather armour to bite into his calf muscle. With a furious bellow, Torgall swung his axe down, removing the head from the shoulders, whereupon it rolled to the side before being kicked out of sight by a charging tauren.

His next opponent was hardly as foolish - a demon, brandishing a jagged longsword, was charging towards him, but Torgall could sense a tactical cunning in this new target; it was not about to simply allow him to lop off its head. He frowned slightly - this was no demon he had seen as yet. It was humanoid in shape, taller slightly than an orc but of similar build. Its thick hide seemed both scaly and scarred, yet appeared fluid as it moved. It had a pointed face which was drawn in a perpetual cruel grin. Sharp claws were wrapped around the hilt of the weapon it carried, and a wickedly spiked tail lashed back and forth, even catching an unsuspecting orc warrior in the back, causing the defender to shriek in pain.

He could not identify what demon this was, and could only assume that it was simply one of the innumerable unfortunate beings that had been consumed by the Legion. He realized with an enraged snarl that his own people had come very close to following a similar path - but he was empowered by the knowledge that they had rejected that fate and were now fighting back. Taking heart with this, he charged forward to meet his opponent head-on.

He raised his axe in a feinting strike - as he expected, the demon moved to take advantage of his supposedly open defense, but Torgall swiftly yanked his weapon back down, parrying the demon blade to the side. The demon gave a pained hiss as, just as quickly, Torgall lashed out with his axe, slashing the demon's weapon arm. His opponent wore minimal protection - runed plate bracers and a breastplate and belt, but everything else was unprotected.

As he had hoped, the demon's next attack came awkardly, missing him by several inches due to the wound impeding its arm. For good measure, he swatted the weapon to the side before advancing for a killing blow.

A second too late he realized he had allowed overconfidence, subtle and deadly, to take control of his actions.

The demon's tail, as deadly as any weapon, whipped out from behind its owner, _elongating_ as it did so. Torgall cried out in shock as the barbed and jagged appendage shot through the air, threatening to impale him completely. The attack missed as he clumsily dodged to the side, but several of the spikes grazed his shoulder and neck, drawing blood and causing him to stumble to the ground. Torgall snarled in pain, instinctively clutching the wound. Another mistake.

The demon was pressing him heavily now, attacking both with its weapon and tail. Torgall scrambled about on the ground, trying desparately to avoid the attacks and get back on his feet simultaneously - his reflex motion to grasp at his wound had cost him the precious seconds that he could have used to regain his footing and fight back. As it was, he was now defenseless save the ability to awkwardly dodge his attacker, with no means to try and counterattack.

As he rolled to the side to avoid yet another impaling strike from the tail, which instead plunged several feet into the ground with incredible force, exactly where his head was heartbeats ago, he wondered how long before either the demon's weapon or tail would catch him with a deadly blow. As he wondered this, he heard an inarticulate war cry, one that sounded trollish. Daring to look up rather than attempting to avoid another attack, he saw that the demon, now the combatant that had fallen to hubris, had a long metal spear plunged so forcefully into its breastplate that it had completely pierced the armour and dented the other side. A troll warrior was carrying the spear, and holding it fast in the demon.

To Torgall and the troll's surprise, the nightmarish monster wasn't slain yet - it started to weakly raise its blade, and even though it was weakened by the wound Torgall had inflicted earlier, and a spear jutting out of its chest, both Torgall and the troll knew that at such close range, the blow would still be fatal for the troll. But not if Torgall could help it.

With a roar of defiance, ignoring the blood seeping from his shoulder, he rose, bringing his axe up to bear. The demon briefly hesitated, half-glancing in his direction, which was more than enough distraction for Torgall. He brought the axe swinging down and it bit deeply into the demon's neck - he could see the evil grin falter for a moment before the body gave a convulsive twitch and collapsed.

Panting, Torgall glanced at the troll, nodding gratefully. The troll merely tugged the spear out of their fallen opponent with a rasping, tearing sound and gave a grin of acknowledgement.

A second later he gave a shriek as his entire body exploded in flames.

Torgall gave an enraged scream of fury - that troll was a fellow warrior, one who had saved him from certain death, only to be slain himself. Snarling and spitting incoherently, he glanced about for the offending spellcaster, and his eyes fell upon a tall, red demon, one clad in nothing but plate gauntlets and pauldrons, and a woven kilt and cloak. He had cloven hooves and a tail, though one none so deadly as the demon he and the troll had just dispatched. The demon's face was crested with bony plate ridges, and a number of spikes jutted out on the cheeks and around the eyes. But what truly startled Torgall, that pierced through his battle-rage and made him hesitate, was the tentacles dangling from the chin and jaw.

_Draenei_.

But not the draenei as he remembered them from his youth. This one was similar, but larger, more imposing, and infinitely more twisted. Merely gazing at it, Torgall could sense the sheer wrongness emanating from this being. Somehow, this draenei had been taken by the Legion and warped, mutated, distorted into the demon he saw before him. No, not demon - dae'mon, the old tongue for _twisted soul_. With a jolt he realized, more than before, that his people were much closer to meeting a similar fate, as he remembered the twisted mockeries of orcs that were the Warsong clan that they had to battle.

His brief startlement made him hesitate, and that hesitation immediately put him at a disadvantage. The dae'mon's lips curled into a cruel smile and it raised a hand - one which more resembled a claw - and gave a simple gesture towards the orc. A second later Torgall felt his feet leave the ground as he was lifted bodily into the air as if he were but a doll. He attempted to struggle, but the dae'mon flicked its wrist, and he was slammed down to the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs.

Stunned and dazed, he blearily looked up at his attacker, who was now weaving his taloned fingers in an intricate circle. As he did so, the shapes he drew in the air glittered into a flickering shadow. Even in his disoriented state, Torgall could tell that would hardly bode well, and he forced himself to his feet. The dae'mon's eyes widened very slightly, evidently surprised that he had already recovered from the attack, but Torgall felt a sense of dread - unless the demon's spell was far from completion, the dae'mon would have been far more concerned of his recovery than mere surprise.

Sure enough, even as he raised his axe to strike back, the demon unleashed a ball of roiling dark energy. Torgall cried out in pain as bolts of shadowy magic spread over his body, electrifying him to the bone and causing his muscles to convulse uncontrollably. His body went completely rigid and he was lifted a few inches off the ground. He tried to scream in pain and frustration, but even his mouth would no longer obey him - a muffled gurgling was all that escaped. Tears began to involuntarily spill from his eyes, obscuring his vision, but he could still vaguely see the dae'mon laughing at his helplessness.

Abruptly, it came to a stop. His body completely slackened and he collapsed to the ground - it was so sudden that he had no chance to prepare for it, and he crumpled painfully, though he was still wracked with pain that he doubted he would have been able to land any more softly. Blinking back the tears that were still in his eyes, he looked up and did a double-take at what he saw.

The ghostly form of Awakeeahmenalo had sunk its teeth into the dae'mon warlock, which was now trying to fight the wolf off. But because of the incorporeal nature of the spirit wolf, the demon's attempts to bat it away were futile. After several moments it finally had the sense to blast the wolf away with magic, but Awakeeahmenalo merely leapt off to the side with a furious bark, only to be replaced by Fenris.

"Gor'om haguul!" the dae'mon snapped, summoning a globe of fel energy. The orb was shadowy-black, but flickered with tinges of sickly green and bloody crimson. The demon hurled the magical attack at Fenris, who caught it in his palms.

The tauren murmured something in his native tongue, opening his paws palm-up to expose the tainted energy to the sky. It exploded in a shower of lightning bolts, fanning out and striking Scourge and Legion alike, the dae'mon included - it screamed in both pain and fury at Fenris' unexpected counter as several bolts lashed its leathery skin.

"Shaza-kiel!" it hissed, drawing the rune it had used on Torgall. The orc tried to cry out a warning, but his mouth was still limp and he only managed a strange rasping sound that was swallowed by the sounds of battle around them. Again, Fenris took on a defensive stance to prepare for the magical attack, but just as it had done with Torgall, the spell paralysed his body, causing him to drop his totem with a heavy _thud_. Off to the side, Awakeeahmenalo faded from sight.

"Katra zil shukil," the dae'mon taunted with a sadistic grin as Fenris' huge form twitched and struggled to break free from the agonising curse. The sight of his friend and comrade in such pain gave Torgall a sense of clarity - even through the ravages of the spell, he felt his muscles flood with an enraged vigour. He leapt to his feet, all pain forgotten, and brought his axe swinging down with a furious bellow, causing the dae'mon to look up in surprise - the axehead being the last thing it saw. Torgall felt a savage pleasure as the blade cut deeply into the skull, spilling the demon's life fluids everywhere, and he wrenched the axe back, kicking the lifeless body to the ground.

To his side, he could see Fenris, shaking from the attack, unsteadily getting to his feet. Torgall ran over to help him up, oblivious to the battle raging about them.

"Are you alright?" he asked, but the tauren shook his shaggy head, clearing his mind and catching his breath.

"I was going to ask you that," he replied gratefully, bending over and picking up his totem. As he grasped it, Awakeeahmenalo faded into view once more. "I can summon the elements to restore our health, but now probably isn't the best-"

His words were cut off by a thunderous crash by a large boulder hurled by one of the catapults, though the heavy missile was enough to accentuate his point. Without a word, he grabbed Torgall by the arm and started pulling him through the ranks of warriors and defenders clashing with the Scourge and Legion; together they ducked and weaved until they were safely behind the battlers, with a wall of defenders allowing them a temporary respite.

"Torgall!"

"Fenris?"

Both Greshka and Rakaji had caught sight of their haggard forms and were hurrying forward, detaching themselves from their respective ranged comrades with concerned looks on their features.

"What's happened to you both?" Greshka demanded, attempting to cover her worry with gruffness, a bluff which only partly worked.

"A deadly encounter with an enemy spellcaster," Torgall explained.

"Not to worry, we have it under control," rumbled Fenris, beckoning one of the nearby tauren shaman over; an orc shaman, draped in a wolfskin cloak similar to Fenris' and with long claws sheathing his hands, accompanied him.

"Yes, chieftain?" asked the tauren.

"We need to prepare a healing ritual," said Fenris, "I'll need you to fetch an earthen totem, two sticks of rosewood-"

"There's no time for a ritual!" snapped the orc shaman abruptly, and they looked at him in surprise. "We're in the middle of a battle, or haven't you noticed? Here!..."

He grasped Torgall by the hand, the claws brushing his skin slightly, and began murmuring a chant to the elements. As he did so, Torgall could sense power welling up within t he wizened old orc, a power that thrummed and pulsed, as if the shaman was radiating heat. Using a small dagger, the shaman pierced the back of his hand that was holding Torgall by the wrist, collected a small pile of dirt, and rubbed the two together. Without warning, the shaman transferred the thrumming power into Torgall, and he felt it surge through him, hot, deadly and powerful. The weakness left by the dae'mon's crippling spell vanished, replaced instead with an almost overwhelming desire to kill. He threw his head back and roared.

"BRAAAAARRRGHHH!" he bellowed, and began breathing heavily, "I feel... feel a need to rend, to tear! I want _blood_!"

"What have you done to him?" Greshka cried furiously as Rakaji took a step back in startlement, "This is the blood pact-"

"Of course it isn't," the shaman chided, glaring at her, "This is pure and natural magic!"

"Just look at him, he-"

"No," interrupted Fenris, "it is a gift from the elements. The Spirit of Fire has agreed to lend some of its strength into Torgall. He is now bestowed with the fury of flame, a bloodlust, if only for the moment."

"Unleash me upon the Scourge!" Torgall snarled, "I'll crush their stinking husks! Rend demons in twain!"

He felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, but it was not painful... it was a yearning, a hunger, one that could only be sated through violence. But this battle-rage, this bloodlust, it was not all-consuming - he still felt in control of his actions, and did not want to give himself to a blood fury. He merely wanted to crush and destroy the enemies of the Horde.

Indeed, as he looked around, he realized he was not the only one being given this blessing of battle - other warriors, wounded like he, were approaching the shamans for assistance, and like himself, they too were being instilled with a lust for battle. There were, however, witch doctors and voodoo priests applying healing salves and casting dark mending spells on those who were more grievously injured.

"Are you sure you feel alright?" Greshka asked - his sudden transformation from injured warrior to bloodthirsty berserker had evidently unnerved her.

"These wounds will not stop me from crashing upon our enemies with the might of the Horde!" he boomed, "Come, Fenris! Let battle be joined!"

The tauren nodded, hefting his totem - while he too had been debilitated by the dae'mon's curse, his large girth allowed him a higher tolerance to pain; in addition, he had suffered it for less, nor had he been struck and wounded on the shoulder, and so was more battle-ready than Torgall had been.

At Fenris' nod, Torgall surged forward, taking powerful strides through the defenders towards the frontline, his companion in tow with Awakeeahmenalo loping alongside them. While Torgall was eager to return to the fight, he was deliberate in his movements - he was not so clouded by a hunger for battle that he would forget the basics of battle. Namely, only a fool would rush headlong into a fight.

He spotted a worthy target - a felguard, having just slain a grunt, was swinging a waraxe and roaring taunts. The sight of a fallen comrade fuelled Torgall's bloodlust, and he bellowed a warcry of his own. The felguard looked in his direction and grinned - Torgall simply snarled back, and the demon's smile faltered slightly. With that, he charged.

The bloodlust guided his hand - swinging the axe felt like ease itself. His weapon, feeling more than ever like an extension of his own body, cleaved through the air, a metallic blur, and sunk deep into the felguard's unarmoured arm. The demon gave a grunt of pain, stumbling back slightly, but Torgall did not relent - in one smooth movement, he wrenched the axe out and swung it again, this time burying it in the demon's midsection. The felguard roared in both rage and agony, futilely attempting to strike him in retaliation, but failing with both of its wounds.

As Torgall pulled his axe out, the demon doubled over and thick, ichorous blood poured out of the second injury. Taking advantage of the sudden weakness, he swung the axe down and onto the felguard's now-exposed neck - the axe cleaved clean through in one sweep, and the head rolled away, the body collapsing with a shudder.

Under normal circumstances, Torgall would have been rather tired from the exertion of slaying such a large opponent, but the fact that he had slain a felguard in three precise strikes filled him with elation and vigour - he glared about looking for a new target.

It didn't take him long to find one - several metres away was a doomguard, brandishing a burning claymore and facing down several orc and troll warriors. Grinning in anticipation of a worthy fight, he rushed forward to meet the attacker.

As he ran towards his new opponent, he took the opportunity to observe the battle. The Horde defenders were holding strong, but it was clear that the Scourge and Legion had no intention of letting up any time soon. Thrall was battling with unbridled fury, riding his wolf through the battle with ease and bringing Doomhammer crashing down on those who happened to be unfortunate enough to fall under his gaze. At other times he would summon down forks of lightning to incinerate the shambling corpses or burning demons, or cause the earth to tremor and quake while he moved into a more advantagous position.

Near Thrall was Cairne Bloodhoof, the wizened old tauren fighting with an almost unbelievable vigour for one so ancient. The stooped warrior cleaved demons in two with his warblade, and sent rotting flesh flying everywhere; he even slammed his hooves against the ground with enough force to topple his opponents. Conversely, Vol'jin, who wasn't much further away, lithely snaked his way between enemies, striking them without their notice with his thin blades, else unleashing dark magic upon them: in one case, he defeated a felguard simply by binding it with dark shackles, and in another, he placed down a totem that released incorporeal snakes into the midst of the battle, snapping and biting at the Scourge and Legion.

Now he was upon the doomguard; as he moved in to strike, the hulking demon slammed the back of its meaty hand against the troll warrior, sending him spinning to the ground with a sickening _crunch_. At the same time it kicked out with one of its thick hooved legs, shattering an orc grunt's shield along with several bones. The remaining warriors cried out in anger at the loss of their comrades, and moved in, putting their hope in their numbers. One remaining troll jabbed out with a long, deadly pike, trying to impale the huge demon's arm, while the two other orcs approached from the other side, one wielding a battleaxe and the other, a maul - Torgall belatedy realized it was Torgus.

The demon, despite being a cunning foe, was briefly stalled by indecision at three opponents advancing from different angles, which Torgall seized upon - he circled around to the doomguard's unprotected flank, looking for a weakness to exploit. He decided to hamper the demon's mobility by aiming for the legs. What passed for a calf was protected by a leg brace, but Torgall was unpeturbed - with a mighty swing, the axe cleaved through the metal and bit into the leathery hide beneath. The doomguard, to which this sudden attack was entirely unexpected, roared in pain and surprise, and rounded on the orc.

Its distraction was all the opening the others needed. Torgus and the two other warriors surged forward and were upon the demon before it had even lifted its weapon. The troll forcefully drove the pike in between the demon's shoulderblades, and it screamed out, one hand instinctively flying to its back to try and wrench the weapon out. Torgus struck next, slamming the maul onto the demon's fingers, which bent awkwardly and went limp. The demon fell to one knee, succumbing to the wounds on its leg and back, and its broken hand, whereupon Torgall and the other orc struck simultaneously, swinging at the neck with enough force that their weapons nicked one another's fingers.

Again, Torgall felt a rush of elation at the sight of another kill, the warm blood splattering his face, and he looked up, breathing heavily, and grinned at Torgus. The older warrior smiled back, impressed, though not a little bit surprised.

"Your attack was timely, my friend," he said gruffly over the sounds of battle echoing around them. "Without it that demon would have possibly slain us all."

"Merely another bothersome gnat to fall beneath the might of the Horde," growled Torgall, wiping blood from his chin.

"You seem quite eager for battle, I see," Torgus went on, ducking as a skeleton warrior attempted to slice his arm, to which he retaliated by crushing its skull.

"The shaman saw to that," Torgall said, swinging the axe, "though my bloodlust is not yet sated... I need a more powerful, a more worthy foe-"

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the ground rumbled so forcefully that they were both knocked almost entirely off their feet. Staggering, they looked about for the source of the quake. They didn't need to look far - careening through the frontlines like a living battering ram was the pit lord, Azgalor. The enormous demon was crashing over the defenders, cleaving through them with a massive double-ended blade, else slamming the ground with his huge girth to upend his opponents. Already many of the warriors were focusing their efforts to bring him down.

"Will that be enough for you?" Torgus asked sardonically. Torgall grinned.

"Perhaps..."


	41. Twilight of the Gods, part 9

**Chapter 41: Twilight of the Gods, part 9**

Lucethious sat, hands by his sides, arms limp, eyes shut. He could feel the power beginning to flow through him once more; slowly but surely, his magical abilities were being returned to him. Awakening from the magic-induced coma had been a startling experience for him - Fenris had not simply purged the fel magic from his body, he had purged _all_ magic from his body. As such, the elf had awoken feeling empty, weak - it was unlike anything he had yet experienced. He remembered simply trying to levitate a piece of wood, and watching, crestfallen, as it had remained staunchly stationary.

Now, however, he had been given a chance to recover, and he had opened himself to his surroundings to allow the flow of magic to return to him. Normally this would be a fairly dangerous action to take - a spellcaster was particularly vulnerable to magical assault when left in an open state, and he could very easily be put back into a comatose state - or worse. Fortunately, Yulgash had set up a number of wards that effectively blocked any and all magic: both going into the tent, and out.

The reason for these wards was twofold: while Yulgash was concerned for his mentor, he had his own reasons for setting up the wards as well. While Lucethious had initially worked to regain his bearings, having been largely shaken from his abrupt and unexpected return to conciousness, Yulgash had been investigating the piece of demonic-imbued cloth, or felcloth, as he had dubbed it, a term which Lucethious considered appropriate.

Assisting him in his studying of the cloth was Belpep. The imp largely flitted in and out of sight, to which Lucethious could only assume he was carrying out tasks for Yulgash - he had given up trying to keep track of the demon's location, as it seemed to change as suddenly as the winds. He did, however, notice that the relationship between master and minion had improved since their battle with Anetheron - it seemed that Belpep had chosen loyalty to Yulgash over the possibility of returning to the Legion. How or why, Lucethious could not fathom; demons practically lived off the pain, suffering and destruction of others, and yet Yulgash was quite clearly opposed to such things. As such, he could see no benefit to the partnership for the imp.

Gently, he exhaled, slowing his breathing to help calm himself. The forced removal of magic from his being was exhausting as it was, but restoring his magical stores was equally as tiring. However, if one let the magic enter them, rather than attempting to wrestle and force the magic into themselves, the process could be considerably smoother and less straining, to the point where some experienced magi could even perform an advanced branch of the spell, an evocation to channel mana through themselves, in the midst of battle and finish the spell renewed and battle-ready without breaking stride.

As it was, Lucethious was having only mild success. He was moderately apt at performing his own evocations, but knowing that a life-and-death struggle was raging just beyond the walls of the Horde stronghold did little to calm his strained nerves. A well-placed infernal strike, for example, could suddenly and gruesomely end any hope of replenishing his magical abilities.

It didn't help much, either, that Yulgash's studies of the felcloth weren't particularly quiet. The human would occasionally give a grunt or utterance of approval, whether at his own work or Belpep's. The imp was little better, chattering away to himself in demonic almost constantly whenever he was present. Lucethious had no real ideas as to what the human was trying to achieve, nor did he particularly care until he was satisfied that he was sufficiently rested.

Fortunately, he knew that he was nearing the end of his meditations. While Yulgash's wards prevented magic entering the tent, for example an external attack aimed at those within, they could not block the ever-present magic that naturally saturated the air, which was so much stronger closer to the Hyjal summit - the magical permeated everything around them, and Lucethious was utilizing that magic to recover himself. The multitude of shamanistic, voodoo and other ritualistic objects disrupted the effect somewhat, but not enough to actively hinder his meditation.

Again he exhaled, slower this time, and as he did so he flexed his fingers gently, and rolled his head to release the stiffness that had been building in his neck from sitting stock-still for the better half of an hour. His eyes fluttered open, blinking slightly in the dim light. As they adjusted to seeing again, he scanned the tent. Belpep was fidgeting and capering about as usual, while Yulgash was sitting with his back to him - from what Lucethious could see, the human's hands were fumbling about out of sight.

"What are you doing?" he asked, frowning. Yulgash jumped, clearly unaware that his mentor had recovered, and looked about guiltily.

"Nothing," he said shiftily. Lucethious' frown deepened.

"Show me," Lucethious demanded. Yulgash hestitated, then reached behind him and brought out a black cowl - it was beautifully woven, with golden thread embroidery lacing the rim of the dark black cloth. A sparkling green emerald shone at the centre of the hood, approximately where the middle of the wearer's forehead would be. It shimmered with magical power, power that was barely constrained by the enchantments that had been put upon the item, though Lucethious knew that to one without keenly honed magical senses, it would appear little more than an ordinary piece of clothing - though a fashionable one at that.

"You might remember I mentioned that I followed the art of the thread when I was at Dalaran," Yulgash mumbled, slightly embarrassed. "Well... I decided I'd put those skills to use."

As he said that, Lucethious looked about for the felcloth, though the answer had already clicked into place.

"You realize the kind of power contained within that item," he said quietly, "barely contained, no less."

"I'm aware of the risks," Yulgash replied confidently. "Belpep was quite helpful in placing a containment field over the cloth... it's a slight modification to Meitre's Binding spell."

"The same one you used to bind me," chirruped Belpep, and Yulgash grinned slightly.

"If you think it will work," Lucethious said uneasily, "then I won't try to stop you. But be aware that the risks - and responsibilities of those risks - are yours. If this goes wrong somehow, I won't help you clean up the mess."

"Not a problem," the human said cheerfully, and with that he slipped the cowl over his head before Lucethious could say another word.

For several brief moments, he simply stood, eyes closed and with his arms slightly outstretched as if embracing the power he expected to flow through him. A second later, he doubled over and convulsed, grappling with some unseen force that sought to force him to the ground. He writhed and kicked, trying to throw off whatever was attempting to overwhelm him. Lucethious hesitated, but remembered that he said he would not intervene - this was Yulgash's choice. He wasn't particularly surprised by this sudden reaction; the power contained within the cloth was trying to dominate the human.

Curiously, Belpep, too, was making no move to assist. Lucethious threw the imp a questioning look, but he merely smiled, exposing many sharp teeth.

Yulgash was still fighting with the magical force, but Lucethious could see that his movements were less haphazard and more controlled. He no longer trashed out randomly, wildly, but simply gave off an occasional spasm - which meant that the battle for dominance was already nearing its end. Sure enough, a few seconds of frantic fighting later, Yulgash abruptly straightened up and slowly raised his hands to the cowl. For a moment he simply rested his palms against the cloth before lowering them and opening his eyes. To Lucethious' surprise, they now glimmered slightly, not unlike his own - the mark of a powerful mage.

"Behold," Yulgash said, his voice now resonating slightly with power, "the Cowl of the Nathrezim!"

Lucethious shivered slightly. "Yulgash-"

The human waved his concern aside. "Be at ease, my friend," he said, smiling, "I am still myself. The fel magic sought to dominate me, but I fought it off." His smile widened. "Come. Let us use the demons' magic against them..."

Lucethious still felt uneasy about Yulgash's decision to don an adornment so steeped in fel energy. The human still seemed himself, but from what Yulgash had discovered of dreadlords, they were ever-manipulative and scheeming - it would be just like one to instill a possesion spell within that hood and take control while maintaining an illusion of the victim still being in control.

Silently, he vowed to keep a watchful eye on the human in case he went rogue - and to take whatever action would be necessary if he did.

Yulgash led both Lucethious and Belpep out of the tent and through the Horde stronghold. It was far less crowded now - there were a few shamans and other healers tending to the wounded, but beyond that, all the defenders were outside. The sounds of battle were much louder out here, a cacophony of screams, warcries, metal on metal, the tearing of flesh, the dull but heavy thuds of siege weaponry firing - as they approached the gate, they were forced to dive apart as a fetid corpse, flung by a meat wagon somewhere out of sight, collided with the ground and exploded, sending rotting meat flying everywhere.

"We'll have to be near the front lines, you understand?" Yulgash asked nonchalantly, dusting off his robes as they all clambered back to their feet. "If we're going to get a clear shot at them..."

Lucethious nodded silently - he said nothing, but something about his concern must have shown in his face.

"Lucethious, you need not worry about me," he said, smiling warmly. The elf hesitated.

"Magic is corrupting. So is power. Magic is powerful... and this is _fel_ magic, no less," he blurted out. "Yulgash, I'm... worried."

Yulgash's smile fell slightly, but he simply replied, "The only corrupting power at play here is overconfidence... don't be afraid to push me to the ground if it looks like I'm about to get myself killed," he added with a grin, but Lucethious did not smile. With a sigh and a shrug, the human turned to the gates and beckoned for him and Belpep to follow.

They were almost immediately bowled over by a charging tauren, clutching at his midriff, which was bleeding profusely; they raised their eyebrows but said nothing. They sidled past the shamans, witch doctors and voodoo priests, who were all casting a variety of spells to augment the defenders, and then the siege weapons - catapults and demolishers, hurling enormous boulders to crush the Scourge and Legion from afar. Next they squeezed past the archers and headhunters, a number of whom had fallen prey to the insidious spells of the warlocks and necromancers, or to a warrior or undead that had managed to slip past the frontline defenders.

And then they were in the thick of the battle. Milling about and battling with unbridled ferocity were orcs, tauren, trolls, even the odd dwarf, human or elf, locked in furious combat with the undead and demons. Lucethious found himself beset from all sides, having to duck and weave his way around the combatants, but Yulgash moved with a confident grace, as if the attackers seemed to target everyone _but_ him.

As Lucethious began to enter the fray, he watched Yulgash carefully for any signs of change. The human simply stood, eyes closed and hands raised to the emerald on the Cowl, which was beginning to glow a sharp green, as he summoned his energies. Almost unconciously, Lucethious thrust a hand out to the side, freezing a ghoul that was lunging towards him, and then casting forth a blast of freezing winds to batter away a number of zombies and skeletons that were advancing.

Abruptly, Yulgash's eyes opened, and the shimmering that Lucethious had seen before had been replaced by a blazing green. His arms snapped back before thrusting them forward, palms out, unleashing a telekinetic blast that ravaged a line of ghouls and acolytes. Lucethious gaped as the shockwave sent the Scourge attackers flying, a rippling wall of force that careened into anything unlucky enough to be caught in its path. Through his blank shock, he noticed that the young spellcaster had chosen a path of attack that avoided striking any of the defenders, who no doubt would have suffered as much as the attackers.

Perhaps he had indeed overcome the dreadlord's magic.

Yulgash was far from finished, however. Pulling one hand back, then thrusting it out, he released another wave of invisible energy - this one rippled forth in a series of explosions, sending rocks, dirt and undead flying everywhere. A ghoul gave a gurgling cry as its flesh was ripped to shreds, and a skeleton clattered in surprise as its bones were sent soaring in ten different directions; an acolyte gave a brief scream as rocks as large as dwarves pummeled him brutally.

Yulgash next thrust a hand into the air, making a series of complicated gestures and finger-movements; a burst of flame sprung to life above him, snaking about until it formed a perfect ring around his hand. Yulgash brought his hand down, and the ring of flame shot forth, looping about a group of zombies and skeletons, whereupon it quickly began shrinking about them until it seared through their bodies. With an abrupt pull of his other hand, Yulgash effectively _detonated_ the ring, causing an explosion of flame that sent nearby undead and demons toppling.

Only now did he begin to show signs of tiring - even from a distance, Lucethious could see the human was visibly panting and sweating, as well. He made several swift strides over to him and pulled him to face away from the Scourge before he decided to cast another spell and exhaust himself.

"You need to rest," he shouted over the sounds of battle. Yulgash gave a half-glance towards the attackers, a frown forming as he glared at them, but then nodded and allowed himself to be led away. Lucethious half-dragged the human back, deciding that he wouldn't have to keep an eye on Yulgash to stop him killing others - he'd have to keep an eye on him to stop him killing _himself_.

* * *

Torgall grunted in pain as he was flung to the ground; the force of Azgalor's attack almost completely knocked the breath from his lungs. Spluttering and gasping for air, he rolled to the side to avoid being trampled under the demon's enormous feet. Instead he was rewarded by being slammed across the head by the pit lord's thick, scaly tail, making his world spin. He was unpeturbed, however. This was merely a setback - he still felt the bloodlust fuelling him, driving him on to crush the enemies of the Horde. He had simply not expected such a sudden counterattack.

He had begun his attack alongside Torgus, but the two had split up to strike from two different angles, similar to how they had dealt with the doomguard. Unfortunately, he had only just begun to swing his axe when Azgalor's treetrunk-like arm had lashed out with startling swiftness, knocking him to the ground. To his surprise, however, the pit lord appeared to have not even noticed his attempted attack - it was as though the demon's arm had moved of its own accord to stop the attack before it had even properly begun.

Snarling, Torgall leapt back to his feet - he hadn't even gotten started. Certain not to make the same mistake twice, he ran toward's the demon's flank, where several plates of armour provided extra protection in addition to the thick hide beneath. If he could just remove one...

A second later he cursed colourfully as the tail whipped out a second time; fortunately, he was prepared for this and leapt nimbly to the side, but as he did so, Azgalor moved in the opposite direction, putting further distance between them. To make matters worse, he had barely taken two steps when a felguard carrying a heavy warhammer stepped between the two, uttering a taunt in its demonic tongue.

Torgall bellowed a warcry in return, rushing forth to deal with this new obstacle. The felguard, however, struck first, swinging its warhammer with unexpected swiftness. Torgall found himself rolling to the side to avoid the attack, but turned his defensive manoeuver into an attack by utilizing his momentum to kick out forcefully at the demon. Unfortunately, the felguard was wearing heavy plate boots and legplates, but the force of the blow did at least cause it to stumble, buying Torgall the precious seconds he needed to regain his balance.

Not about to allow the felguard to gain the same advantage a second time, he closed the distance in two long strides and brought his axe cleaving through the air. The felguard raised its warhammer and blocked the strike with the shaft of its weapon, snarling at the orc - it was overcome by an insatiable desire for slaughter. Torgall felt a similar bloodlust, but it was a warm, heady feeling, one that pushed him to greater feats without dominating his actions or impeding his clarity of mind. As such, he could still think strategically.

Knowing this, he kicked out a second time, but this one he aimed at the demon's unprotected midriff. At such close quarters, the attack came awkwardly, but it had the intended effect - the felguard stumbled back in surprise. Torgall capitalized on this immediately, throwing his considerable bulk against the demon while it was still off-balance, causing it to crash forcefully to the ground. Before it had a chance to even register where its opponent was, Torgall had driven his axe into the demon's throat, causing a spray of demonic ichor to gush forth, coupled with a pained gurgle.

Wrenching the axe out and moving forward without breaking stride, he immediately made a beeline directly for Azgalor. The pitlord had moved further away now, but was still leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Torgall bared his teeth - he had no idea how they would be able to bring this walking battering ram down.

His answer came a second later. With a keening shriek, a pair of wyverns swooped down from the sky, their windriders throwing a pair of trident-like spears at the pit lord. The first merely clattered off one of the metallic plates lining the sides, but the second wedged itself firmly between those same plates, penetrating the scaly hide and plunging almost a foot into the demon.

Azgalor gave a roar of pain - for a demon of his size, the spear was little more than a needle, but it was a needle that had been forced in deeply. He swung his polearm-like weapon at the offending windriders, but they were too quick for him, and darted out of the way to safety. They were almost immediately replaced by several batriders, who lobbed a number of volatile concoctions at the demon, but with a mane of felfire, they had little effect.

His distraction, however, was all they needed. Torgall and a number of other warriors surged forward; out of the corner of his eye, he could see Torgus approaching from behind, aiming for the tail. For his part, Torgall aimed for the flank once more. The plates hung rather losely, strung together by a number of chains, but he would still need to get rid of at least one to cause any significant damage. With a grunt, he swung his axe as hard as he could, whereupon it clanged against the chains - he felt his arms jolt painfully from the impact, but he was rewarded with a satisfying metallic crunch as several of the links snapped apart, causing one of the plates to hang loosely to the side. Ignoring the jarring aches in his shoulders, he swung the axe again, this time so that it bit into the metal plate - with a powerful wrench, he pulled the plate clean from its remaining chains, exposing the scaly hide beneath.

Azgalor was still unaware of the impending attack, distracted by both the aerial attackers and the warriors in his more immediate vicinity. As such, Torgall and Torgus both managed to strike with brutal efficiency. Torgus brought his maul swinging down, the spikes driving deep into the demon's lizard-like tail. Azgalor gave a second bellow of pain, and his tail lashed out instinctively; Torgus barely managed to pull his weapon free and dodge out of the way to avoid being concussed by a heavy blow to the head.

Torgall struck next, sinking his axe as deep as he could. To his disappointment, he found the demon's hide to be as ample as any crafted armour, which absorbed most of the blow, but it still bit fairly deep. Azgalor's response was less pained, but he still gave a grunt as the axe struck home. It was this second attack that made the demon more aware that his previous advantage had diminished - as such, he acted accordingly.

"Reesh, hokta!" he roared in his demonic tongue, swinging his warblade in a large, cleaving arc - the soldiers that were advancing from the front staggered back, several bleeding profusely or even cut in two. Next he reared up, slamming his huge girth against the ground, sending the remainder, Torgall and Torgus included, toppling. With his opponents briefly neutralized, he raised one of his scaly claws and began chanting.

As Torgall's vision cleared, blurry from the impact of hitting the ground, he saw that the sky above them had turned a smoky, blood-red. The sight jolted something in the back of his senses - the sight of fire raining from the heavens, scorching all in its path.

"GET AWAY!" he bellowed, all bloodlust forgotten - a few of the warriors, Torgus one of them, obeyed without a word, but several merely glanced at him, confused.

Their hesitation cost them their lives.

At Azgalor's command, the clouds parted to give way to balls of molten flame and felfire, screaming towards the earth in a frenzy of death. They struck the ground with more force than a cannon, spraying flame and lava everywhere. Those that were lucky enough to be struck directly only had time to give a brief cry before they were utterly incinerated - those that were not stumbled about, shrieking in agony as the flames literally ate away at their bodies, slowly and agonizingly consuming their flesh.

Torgall ducked and weaved through the hellfire as the deadly fireballs continued to rain down, causing chaos among the defenders. Azgalor stood in the middle of it all, bellowing a gurgling laughter at the carnage as orcs, tauren and trolls staggered about, blinded by pain as the demonic flames steadily reduced them to cinders.

The Scourge and Legion capitalized on this sudden break in the defenders, rushing forward with renewed vigour. The Horde suddenly found itself pressed from all sides and angles by demons and undead, unable to cohesively push forward for fear of being caught in Azgalor's rain of fire. Inch by inch, yard by yard, they were being forced closer and closer towards the gates of the stronghold.

Skeletons and zombies lead the ranks, pushing forward with reckless abandon. The mindless husks fell easily, but their unrelenting hunger, coupled with their sheer numbers, made them difficult to fend off. Whenever the defenders seemed to be pushing them back, the necromancers and acolytes would use their magic to debilitate and weaken their resolve. The shamans managed to offset this to a degree, but they were being overwhelmed by the sudden influx of injured warriors.

The skies were possibly the only safe haven. Valnok Windrager and his windriders were unhindered by Azgalor's magical assault, though they were otherwise engaged by the gargoyles that were harrassing the ground warriors. Whenever they could they would swoop down to try and disrupt the Scourge and Legion's ranks, but for they spent more of their time chasing after the batlike stone fiends. The batriders, at least, were able to strike with impunity, bombing the attackers with their volatile concoctions to keep them from completely overwhelming the defenders.

All the same, Torgall couldn't help but feel that the battle had taken an abrupt turn for the worse. The only thing that distracted him from the death that surrounded him was the question of why the demon's had saved such a weapon until now - to which he could only answer himself that they had merely been toying with them thus far, a fact he found little comfort in.

And then with a loud grunt of pain, all of a sudden, it stopped. Surprised, Torgall looked about. The Scourge and Legion were still pushing forward, but Azgalor had abruptly halted his spell. Frowning, Torgall noticed the front armour plate had buckled completely, and a large boulder lay next to the pit lord. Glancing at a catapult, the realization dawned on him - one smart warrior had the presence of mind to strike the demon with an attack that could truly give it pause.

Without a word, the defenders surged forward to take full advantage of the demon's hesitation. In the blink of an eye Azgalor found himself swarmed by trolls, tauren and orcs, all seeking to end the pit lord's life before it could unleash yet another torrent of flames. He attempted to beat them back, but they were everywhere - hacking, slashing and slamming him with axes, warblades and maces. He started backing up, but with each step he suffered another small wound - small wounds which swiftly began to add up.

It came to the point where the defenders had pushed him back, along with the Scourge and Legion, to recover most of the ground they had lost. There were still patches of burning hellfire dotting the battlefield, but these were as much a hazard to the attackers as they were to the defenders. Azgalor's attempts to defend himself with further casting proved futile, as he was fending off so many attackers at once that he was given little to no reprieve. Torgall found himself advancing along with the others, cutting down a ghoul here, pushing past a skeleton there - the battle had lost all cohesion. All he could think about was putting Azgalor out of action so they wouldn't have to suffer the hellfire a second time.

However, he had only just reached the demon when Azgalor, still attempting to maneuver into a more advantageous position, gave a frustrated roar and lifted his warblade, pointing it completely vertically. A second later he brought it crashing down, piercing the ground and causing the earth to crack and buckle. Torgall stumbled in surprise, as did many of the other warriors nearby, as the shockwave caused them all to lose their footing. However, Azgalor did not slay the prone defenders, as was expected, but instead swiped one claw through the air.

"Not... over... yet!" he growled - where his hand slashed through the air, it literally _parted_, revealing a shimmering veil, swirling with black and purple energies. Utilizing the defenders' inability to fight back, the pit lord half-dragged himself through the portal, still bleeding from his many wounds, whereupon it snapped shut, releasing another blast of energy which sent them further toppling.

Torgall staggered about, trying to remain upright on the uneven ground, but it proved impossible - chunks of rock and earth were jutting up at awkward angles, creating an unstable terrain that was simply too difficult to traverse without proper caution, let alone in the thick of battle. Sure enough, he misplaced one foot and found himself crashing to the ground - his head slammed against a stone, making his entire world spin wildly. The shock of the impact practically paralysed him - he could only lie there, dimly, as he felt his conciousness begin to fade.

_This is it, then_, he thought to himself as he felt several hands clasping at him, _I guess this is how it ends for me... at least I took as many of the bastards down as I could_, he thought with a grin.

He blacked out.

_Author's note: Big apologies about the long delay on this one - I recently started tutoring someone, and coupled with university demands (teaching practical, major assignments, etc), most of my time has been eaten up. I've been trying to extend the chapter lengths to offset this, but I'm not sure if it's working... Unfortunately, with exams approaching, I can't confidently say things will improve anytime soon. Will just have to keep pushing along with what time I have =\_


	42. Twilight of the Gods, part 10

**Chapter 42: Twilight of the Gods, part 10**

"Shall we return to the battle?" Yulgash asked impatiently.

"Just a moment longer," Lucethious replied shortly, "I myself had only just finished collecting myself, and you came close to over-exerting yourself with those spells. That Cowl might augment your magic, but it doesn't give you more staying power!"

Yulgash scowled, but he knew Lucethious' words rang true. He had not accounted for his own stamina holding him back in the midst of combat - the power that the Cowl provided had coursed through him, causing his blood to pump faster, his breath to come quicker - but it felt _good_. He had watched with satisfaction as his spells ravaged the Scourge and Legion alike, a power he had never yet felt. The natural energies of the mountain empowering his spells were one thing, but the feeling of fel energy... that was something else again.

But, as Lucethious had pointed out, that did nothing to extend his longevity. Once the elf had half-dragged him from the battle and forced him to sit down, Yulgash felt himself overcome by exhaustion - it was adrenaline that had kept him fighting, and now that it was beginning to abate, he needed to allow himself some breathing room.

Not that it was that simple - the sounds of battle were still assailing their ears, and it was very difficult to restrain himself from throwing himself back into the fray when he knew others were fighting - and presumably, dying, as well. However, now that Lucethious had brought him back down to earth, he was once more aware of his limits, and he knew that if he simply rushed headlong back into the battle, he would most likely end up slain.

Of course, that didn't make every second excruciatingly straining.

"You won't be able to help them if you end up dead," Lucethious said, echoing his thoughts. Yulgash merely knotted his arms and grumbled to himself. He didn't know what was worse - the fact that he was doing nothing, or knowing that he _couldn't_ do anything.

They still had full view of the battle, though Yulgash couldn't decide whether that was a blessing or a curse. Azgalor had entered the battle proper now, and the behemoth of a demon was wading through the defenders and leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. It was comforting to see that the defenders were still holding strong, despite setbacks like a pit lord massacring some of their best fighters, but at the same time it didn't assauge Yulgash's feelings of helplessness.

If only to give himself something to do - anything was better than sitting there doing nothing - Yulgash reached over and drank deeply from a flask of chilled water Lucethious had conjured for his benefit. The cool water both calmed and refreshed him, but at the same time the coldness pierced his exhaustion and helped return him his clarity of mind. Almost instinctively, he also reached into his robes and withdrew several strips of dried jerky and absently began chewing. One thing that Antonidas, one of the senior magi who occasionally gave lectures for the younger students, had drilled into them was that magic consumed the wielder's strength by using the body, and that the body and strength were most quickly replenished - indeed, _only_ replenished - with food.

Sure enough, Yulgash could already begin to feel his stamina returning to him, but Lucethious, who had spotted the human eating, shot him a quick warning look - he was not about to let him run back into the thick of battle until they were both ready.

"I don't understand," Yulgash said abruptly, desparate to listen to anything other than the screams and wails of battle, "I only cast several spells, and as far as I'm aware, you cast barely anything yourself. What's the point of going back into battle if we can hardly contribute?"

Lucethious stared at him sternly. "You know that 'hardly contribute' is a gross understatement," he replied, "and you should know the answer to that yourself." When Yulgash simply stared at him blankly, he sighed and elaborated, "I myself had just recovered from having all the magic purged from my body. Of course I wasn't going to be at full strength for extensive casting. And you yourself had only just overcome fel magic trying to dominate your mind - that in itself would have been exhausting, even if you didn't feel it at the time. As for only casting several spells... well, you remember how much more we did at the Alliance base when we were fully battle-ready."

Yulgash bit his lower lip, thinking about this, but nodded all the same. Again, Lucethious' words were true. All the same, he couldn't keep up his passive stance forever - the sooner he returned to contributing to the battle, the better.

He watched as Azgalor effortlessly beat back several warriors that were trying to press him from multiple sides - on the ground, the pit lord seemed unstoppable. Yulgash doubted magical attacks would prove particularly effectual against such a powerful demon; he would no doubt have a great deal of magical resistance. He could only think of one possible way to harm the demon: by peppering him with aerial strikes, to which he had no visible defence.

Barely had he thought of that when two windriders swooped down at the demon, thrusting for with a pair of tridents. Judging by the demon's roar of pain, at least one struck home. They were immediately followed by batriders bombarding him with vials of volatile fluid, but as he expected, the flames did little, if anything, to the demonic hide covered with felfire. However, Azgalor's distraction provided an opening for the ground-based defenders to strike at, one which they quickly capitalized on.

The sight of the pit lord finally being given pause eased Yulgash's jangling nerves, if only very slightly. The knowledge that he had been effortlessly decimating their forces had been not a little bit straining for him, so knowing that he wasn't infallible gave him a slight reprieve.

Which was precisely why he felt like passing out when the demon shattered the sky and rained death upon the defenders.

He jumped to his feet, staring at the sight wildly. Balls of demonic felfire plummeted to the ground, blanketing the earth in a sheet of fiery destruction. The defenders milled about in chaos, trying to escape the agonizing flames that ate at their minds and bodies. The Scourge and Legion, bolstered by this sight, surged forward and began to overwhelm the suddenly bewildered Horde.

"Lucethious!" he cried hoarsely, "We have to stop him!"

"How?" the elf asked - his voice was calm, but when Yulgash glanced over at him, he could see his mentor had gone pale at the scene playing out before them.

"I don't know- something that will give him pause!" Yulgash blurted out. He could hear the screams and shrieks of agony now as the rain of fire incinerated orc, troll and tauren alike. He looked about wildly, if only to avoid looking at the gruesome sight - though the sounds of pain continued to assail his ears - and his eyes fell upon one of the catapults, its operator slumped in the seat, slain from several bone-fletched arrows. It sparked an audacious plan in his mind.

"Where are you going?" Lucethious shouted over the din as Yulgash took off at a run, pushing past the shamans and other spellcasters who were being overwhelmed by injured warriors. Yulgash looked about until he found an orc he recognized - an archer with red-brown hair and a gold nosering, whom was firing her bow with blinding speed to try and stem the tide of undead pushing forward.

"You!" he barked, grabbing her by the arm. She snarled angrily and tried to pull away, but paused when he recognized who it was. "Torgall's friend! Get in that catapult, hit the pit lord with it!"

For several scant heartbeats, she stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. However, her eyes quickly darted from the siege weapon to Azgalor, and she nodded, slipping away without a word. Yulgash watched her unceremoniously shove her fallen comrade from the seat, though not without a pained look - he understood the shame she likely felt from treating the dead with such disrespect, but now was hardly the time for formalities. A second later she started gesturing wildly at him.

With a sinking feeling he realized that the catapult wasn't loaded.

He pushed his way back through the chaos to the siege weapon, but stood there, flummoxed as to how to heft one of the nearby boulders onto the catapult's arm. A second later he was joined by Lucethious, who was panting after pushing his way through the milling defenders to try and catch up.

Despite himself, he couldn't help but glance at the battle raging behind them - the defenders were on the verge of open retreat, they were being pushed so hard. The only ones still able to fight were in the air: Valnok Windrager and his windriders, along with the troll batriders, were possibly the only defenders keeping the Scourge and Legion from completely overwhelming the stronghold - their swooping tactics harrassed the attackers and broke their ranks enough to keep them from surging forward in an unstoppable tide.

"Get this thing loaded!" Greshka screamed from above them. Yulgash looked at Lucethious, blank, and mouthed 'how?'.

"Damn it, Yulgash!" Lucethious yelled, "Are you a mage or not?"

For a brief second Yulgash simply stared as the obvious fact fell into place - then he set to work. Focusing his energies through the Cowl, he felt his magic increase several magnitudes. It was thus ease itself to levitate one of the enormous, heavy boulders through the air and onto the catapult. Greshka immediately started pulling and tugging at various levers, causing the catapult to creak and rumble as it slowly but surely lined up its target. Azgalor was still rampaging about, his rain of fire dashing any hopes of the defenders re-forming their lines. Yulgash held his breath, painfully hoping this would work.

With a heavy _thwack_, the catapult released, sending the boulder flying through the air. Yulgash watched, as if in slow-motion, as it gracefully soared along, rolling, rolling, over the heads of the defenders, the Scourge and the Legion, drawing closer and closer, until with a clanging crunch, it slammed against one of the front plates hanging from the pit lord, slammed with enough force to cause the thick metal plate to buckle completely and to make the demon stumble back in pain and surprise.

In a heartbeat, the skies suddenly turned blue once more. The fire ceased. The smoke began to clear. Within that same heartbeat, the defenders realized what had happened and rushed to reform ranks, to regain what they had lost. Yulgash couldn't help but grin - his tactic had worked, they had stopped Azgalor! Flashing a quick grin to Greshka, he took off at a run towards the frontlines, Lucethious following him in bewilderment.

"Where... are you going?" he cried, dodging and weaving to avoid being swept up in the surging tide of orcs, tauren and trolls stampeding forward.

"We have to hit Azgalor while he's vulnerable!" Yulgash yelled back over his shoulder, "Take him down before he can cause any further damage!"

Lucethious opened his mouth to protest, but realized Yulgash was right. Even if he wasn't, though, he doubted he could have said anything - the noise this close to the battle was defeaning, and he was moving so much to avoid being trampled he could hardly keep Yulgash in his sights, let alone shout anything to him.

Azgalor was awkwardly pushing himself to his feet - the force of the attack had seemingly winded the huge demon. Fortunately for him, his deadly spell had forced most of the warriors away from him, so he had a small area of recovery, but that gap was quickly closing. Already, Yulgash could see several warriors moving in for the kill - not just from the front, but from all sides. The pit lord was trapped.

Unfortunately, as was natural for a cornered beast, that only caused him to fight all the more desparately - though with desparation came a distinct lack of control. The pit lord's swings, while still strong and lethal, became wilder and more erratic. More than once a lithe troll was able to dodge past his attacks and strike, or an orc would surreptitiously weave around the flailing forelimbs for a well-placed attack. Had he been able to cast a spell, Azgalor might have had a chance to regain his advantage, but the attacks streaming in from all sides made that an impossibility.

Yulgash had managed to get close enough to cast a short-range spell. With the demon so distracted by all the defenders hacking and slashing at him, his defenses against magic would no doubt be diminished somewhat. The spell Yulgash intended to use would strike with tremendous force, but was difficult to project over long distances. At this close range, however, if he could keep a track on the demon's head-

A second later he cried out in surprise as Azgalor suddenly plunged his warblade into the earth, causing it to shake and tremor. The shockwave was powerful enough to cause the ground to shatter and buckle, leaving deep cracks and crevices stretching out several metres in each direction on the battlefield. Yulgash's concentration was completely broken as he tried to keep his footing - as he spun about, he saw Lucethious nearby, magically levitating himself several inches off the ground while the tremors began to cease.

To his surprise, Azgalor did not use this sudden advantage to slay his opponents, but instead opened a demonic portal to some other hellish plane. Yulgash summoned his energies to try and hit the demon with at least one magical attack, but realized they would be better off if he simply retreated. A moment later, the lizardlike tail disappeared through the swirling energies, and the portal slammed shut - releasing a blast of energy that sent everyone further spinning.

This time, Yulgash was more prepared, and followed Lucethious' lead by levitating himself off the ground. Stabilized, he scanned his immediate surroundings - the ground was utterly broken, with random slabs of earth jutting out at dangerous angles. Several defenders had already fallen, hitting the ground with painful force; with a start, Yulgash realized one of them was Torgall. The orc was lying, dazed, his eyes slightly unfocused, his body unmoving. Yulgash reasoned the orc's head must have slammed against the ground.

"Lucethious!" he shouted, gesturing wildly to get the elf's attention. Lucethious caught sight of the human's arms waving about and raised his eyebrows, but when he saw what he was pointing to, they knitted together, furrowed in concentration. Together they half-walked, half-magicked themselves over to the prone orc, leaning down and straining to lift him up. The orc had fallen unconcious, and so his sagging weight was unbelievably heavy. Undeterred, Yulgash utilized the same spell he had used on the boulder, causing the weight to instantly dissipate, and allowing them to half-drag, half-levitate him from the battle.

It was not easy - the sight of Azgalor's retreat had revitalized the defenders, causing them to redouble their efforts and renewing their vigour. They were fighting with an almost manic frenzy now, as if seeking to avenge themselves on the remaining demons and undead for Azgalor's attack - consequently, they made it much harder to push back to the gates. As Yulgash and Lucethious drew nearer to the stronghold, he realized that this was not merely an emotional rage that had overcome the defenders, but a magical one - the shamans were inducing a frenzied bloodlust into the Horde warriors, spurring them on to greater feats of strength.

All the same, they drew slowly but surely towards the gates, each magically supporting Torgall's weight, a task compounded in difficulty as they were jostled back and forth by the milling Horde warriors, jarring their concentration. The tauren in particular made it particularly straining, as their huge forms battered them about effortlessly. At one point Yulgash was thrown to the ground by a particularly careless one hefting a large totem; out of the corner of his eye he saw Torgall sag, but Lucethious took up the mental slack. To his surprise, the tauren was not completely focused on returning to the battle, and instead paused and turned to help him up - a second later he realized it was Fenris.

The tauren pulled him to his feet - almost unintentionally pulling the human's arm out of its socket as he did so - and glanced at Lucethious. His brows knitted together in both concern and exasperation.

"First the elf is unconcious, now the orc is," he rumbled. "Dare I ask what magical attack did it this time-?"

"Not magical," Yulgash interrupted, "he simply hit his head - hard. Figured it's probably best to just get him out of the way for the moment."

Fenris opened his mouth to reply, but his reply was swallowed by a forceful gust of wind, accompanied by an eerie chill. They both huddled in on themselves, both briefly cowed by the abnormal breeze.

"That was no natural wind," Fenris growled, gazing around them. Yulgash did likewise - most of the warriors had charged to the battlefront, leaving them behind - but whatever it was the tauren could see, Yulgash was seemingly blind to it.

Fenris, however, was undeterred. Planting both hooves firmly to the ground, he slung his totem over his back and outstretched both arms.

"Wa alo towa te alo Shtumanialo, chi towa rah shne ishte alo washte wa shne!" he bellowed, thrusting his palms forward. An invisible wave of force rolled forth, rippling outwards before colliding with a seemingly solid wall of air. A second later, cracks appeared from nowhere, as if the very atmosphere was fracturing. Yulgash barely had time to comprehend the startling sight when the wall _shattered_, fading into nothingness, and revealing the form of Anetheron.

"Well played, my bovine friend," the dreadlord leered, apparently unpeturbed by his guise being revealed, "I commend you. But I'm afraid you'll be able to do little more than that..."

"You!" Yulgash cried, unable to think of anything else to say. Anetheron stared at him, his sneer widening contemptuously.

"So it was you that harnessed my energies, then," he said, his glowing green eyes narrowing as they stared at the cowl on the human's head. "But stolen magic will not help you here..."

He extended a talon-like finger, pointing it threateningly at Yulgash. Pure fel energy gathered around the sharp nail, coalescing into a crackling globe of magic. Yulgash watched as the dreadlord snapped a second finger out, causing the magic to extend into a beam of energy, one that lanced towards the prone human. Yulgash made no move to avoid the attack, and Fenris reached out to block it, even knowing he would be too late to intervene.

At the last second, Yulgash's hand whipped out of one of the sleeves of his robes, tracing an intricate glyph in the air with blinding speed. The magical lance, feet away from impaling his head, suddenly ricocheted in a different direction. At the point where it was deflected, the air rippled like a pond surface being disturbed. Yulgash remained standing, completely unharmed by the attack. Fenris stared in surprise at the abrupt maneuver, and Anetheron's eyes narrowed further.

"I see you have some skill, then," he conceded, "but rest assured, I will be rid of you!"

"Not if I can help it, demon!" Fenris rumbled, moving to stand beside Yulgash. "If you are to face us, you shall face us both!"

"Very well," Anetheron said with a shrug, and clapped his clawed hands together. Immediately the ground beneath them shook and fractured, pelting the pair with large, heavy stones. They both split apart, rolling in different directions to avoid the barrage.

Anetheron spread his arms wide, gathering fel energy in each hand and summoning his power for a spell to rid both of them simultaneously. Before he could strike, however, Fenris cried, "For the Earthmother!", whipping out one of his own large hands - from it issued a stream of purest water with the force of a cannon. The dreadlord, taken by surprise by this sudden attack, was blasted clean off his hooves and sent back several feet before landing with a heavy crash. Where the water had struck, it immediately heated and turned to steam, searing the demon's pale skin.

With a snarl, Anetheron lunged toward Fenris, claws outstretched. Before he could reach him, however, Yulgash repeated the same motion as earlier, causing the demon to rebound off another invisible shield. He immediately followed with a second spell, harnessing energy from the Cowl to summon a bolt of shadow magic, which he hurled at the dreadlord. Anetheron, however, merely swatted the attack aside.

"You cannot defeat me!" he cried, thrusting both hands, palm-out, at the pair. Immediately they were assailed by gale-force winds; Yulgash was buffeted aside by the force, but Fenris, with his larger girth and weight, was able to hold his ground, though not without difficulty. When Anetheron saw that the tauren was not yet beaten, he gave a grunt of surprise, and clenched one clawed hand tightly. A second later Fenris' arms snapped to his sides, immobilizing him; Anetheron raised his other hand slightly, and Fenris was raised several feet off the ground.

"Chi... anohe rah... ishnelo alo owatanka!" he growled, struggling against his invisible bonds.

"I'll be rid of you first..." the demon muttered, slowly pulling back one of his clawed hands, gathering energy for one concentrated burst. Yulgash struggled to rise, hoping to strike at the dreadlord and halt his spell, but to no avail. He could only watch helplessly as Anetheron steadily summoned more and more energy, a plentiful amount that would surely obliterate the tauren. Fenris continued to struggle, flexing his fingers and murmuring what Yulgash took to be curses against the demon.

"Yes... this is just the beginning," Anetheron said with a mad glint in his eye, "you and your pitiful allies are the first of many... your world shall _burn_-"

"NO!"

Fenris roared as abruptly, the bonds shackling him were broken, and he landed heavily on the ground. Barely pausing to regain himself, he stood up straight and thrust both arms out forcefully. With this gesture the winds suddenly changed direction, barreling into the demon and sending him flying a second time.

It took Yulgash several moments to realize he was no longer pinned to the ground; as soon as the realization hit him, he leapt to his feet, summoning a crackling ball of arcane lightning in one hand and a swirling ball of fel energy, empowered by the Cowl, in the other. Taking advantage of Anetheron being thrown off-balance, he hurled them both at the demon before he had a chance to deflect them. Both struck him squarely on the breastplate, sending tendrils of energy coursing over his pale skin. Anetheron snarled as the strands of energy burnt the exposed flesh before summoning a spellshield to nullify the magic.

Now, however, they had him on the defensive. Fenris pressed this advantage without a second thought, slamming his totem forcefully on the ground and sending rippling shockwaves to continue to upend the demon. Next he gestured at the earth, causing the same rocks that had earlier attacked he and Yulgash to assault Anetheron. With the demon sufficiently distracted, he nodded to Yulgash to continue his example before raising one hand to the sky and beginning to chant.

Yulgash followed Fenris' lead, peppering the demon with a series of spells designed more to hinder rather than harm. First he used a simple parlour trick to cause clouds of dust to congregate around the dreadlord, obscuring his vision as they formed a thick, smoky barrier around him. Anetheron hissed in frustration as he dispelled the obstacle, but Yulgash immediately struck with a second spell, this time summoning into being an orb of pure light before the demon. Anetheron barely had a moment to glance at it when it flared, bright as the sun, directly in his face - he stumbled back, snarling and cursing, as the light tempoarily blinded him.

At this point Yulgash chanced a glance at Fenris to see what exactly he was doing. The tauren was still standing stock still, one hand extended skyward as he chanted. Yulgash gazed upward and saw that thick clouds were swirling above, and with them came an ominous rumble of thunder. It was clear that the shaman was preparing a powerful spell, but Yulgash could also tell he needed more time.

To his dismay he saw that Anetheron's vision was already returning. The demon's face was murderous. He outstretched one long-nailed finger at the human, preparing to eliminate him with one well-placed spell. Instinctively, Yulgash cast a binding spell similar to the one Anetheron had used on Fenris; now it was the demon's arms that were pinned to his sides. With an enraged snarl, the dreadlord dispelled the magical bonds with but a thought, then mentally cast a retaliatory spell - Yulgash found himself slammed to the ground as if an invisible hand sent him crushingly earthward.

"It seems I will have to eliminate you first!" the dreadlord snarled, pointing a finger from each hand at the prone human; Yulgash screamed in agony as a spear of burning energy impaled him through the stomach, pinning him to the ground. He stared in horror at the crackling green fel energy pressed through his midriff, which he could feel protruding out his other side - the sight and pain almost caused him to black out.

"And now to deal with-" Anetheron continued, turning to face Fenris, whereupon he stopped. The tauren was wreathed in crackling lightning, similar to when he had purged Lucethious of demonic magic, but this time he thrummed with power. The earth around him trembled, and he felt as if he were giving off pure heat. When he spoke, his voice resonated with cold fury.

"Wa alo towa te alo owatanka ich alo Shtumanialo," he rumbled ominously, "E aloaki chi caio owa ti'ha."

Anetheron opened his mouth to cast a spell, but whatever sound that came out was swallowed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder. Defenders, Scourge and Legion alike looked on as the sky itself split apart, and a single bolt of pure blue-white lightning descended upon the dreadlord in raw fury. Anetheron screamed as the lightning lit him up entirely, a glowing batlike form; the sight nearly blinded Yulgash and even caused him to momentarily forget the magical spear piercing his belly. The dreadlord was suspended slightly off the ground, limbs extended, the lightning completely illuminating him until abruptly, the body convulsed and dissolved into a swarm of jet-black bats, which fluttered out, screeching, in different directions - until at last, nothing remained of the demon but his now-charred breastplate, which hit the ground with mundane finality.

No sooner had the demon been defeated then the battle resumed - the sounds of fighting returned, the lightning sheathing Fenris dissipated, and Yulgash gasped as he once more felt the piercing pain from Anetheron's attack. Fenris stood for a moment, blinking, before he saw the human lying on the ground with the lance jutting from his stomach.

The tauren strode over in two swift strides, glanced at the magical spear, then passed one paw over it, murmuring a chant to the elements. A moment later the magic dissolved, leaving a burnt hole piercing clean through Yulgash's midriff. The human sobbed breathlessly at the sight, a sound which turned to a pained scream as Fenris gingerly felt the wound.

"It is not fatal," he proclaimed a moment later, "though I expect that is of little comfort in your present condition..."

"N-not fatal?" Yulgash stammered, unable to bring himself to look at the gruesome sight. Fenris shook his head.

"No. The magic cauterized the wound, and it does not seem to have pierced anything vital. My guess is he intended to simply remove you from the fight to deal with me," he said, still surveying the wound carefully. "It will be healable, but we'll need to get you to safety first."

He paused for a moment, considering while Yulgash gasped raggedly, then said, "I'm sorry for this, my friend."

Yulgash was about to ask, "Sorry for what?" when the tauren bent down and, as gently as he could, lifted the young mage off the ground. Despite his caution, the movement still caused pressure on the wound, causing Yulgash to scream a second time as fresh agony sliced his body anew. Ignoring it, Fenris moved purposefully but as carefully as he could back towards the stronghold.

Lucethious was waiting for them, Torgall with him - the orc's face was dripping with water, evidently used to resuscitate him.

"Fenris! We saw the lightning coming from outside the- _by the Sunwell!_ What happened to _him?_" he gasped as he caught sight of the hole in Yulgash's stomach.

"Attacked by the demon. Nothing fatal," Fenris replied shortly, intent on getting the human safely out of further harm's way. "The wound itself was not life-threatening. But continued trauma, however minor, could end the human's life."

Lucethious' eyes widened and he paled slightly, but he nodded and remained silent. Torgall was observing the pair warily, careful to give the tauren plenty of berth to work with.

A minute later they were once more gathered inside the shaman's tent, and Fenris was requesting aid from the elements to heal the wound. Torgall was hunched over, hands on his knees and gazing at Yulgash as Fenris manipulated his shamanistic powers, while Lucethious hovered at the entrance flap, staring off in the direction of the battle.

From what they could tell, things were only getting more and more violent. There were no real indicators that the Horde had fallen yet, but the sounds of battle were getting, if possible, louder and more vicious, and they felt the ground shaking more frequently as siege weapons were brought into more and more use. More than once there was a quaking explosion, the result of yet another structure collapsing.

This did not deter Fenris, however. Calmly and methodically, the burly tauren smoothly passed his hands over the wound in intricate shapes and gestures, murmuring praise to the elements all the while. He had initially applied a salve to ease the pain, and Yulgash now merely groaned as the tauren went about his work. Before their shocked eyes, the blood siphoned away, the flesh mended itself, the skin knitted. Within a scant few minutes, all traces of the wound was gone.

Lucethious shook his head. "These powers never cease to amaze me," he admitted.

"The power of the elements is never to be underestimated," Fenris replied seriously. "Only the foolish and overconfident - usually both - consider themselves to be above-"

His rhetoric was interrupted by an ominous rumble, accompanied by a quake which caused them all to stumble; Yulgash, who was cautiously rising after his brief ordeal, was thrown to the ground with a heavy thud.

A moment later a booming voice echoed across the battlefield - a harsh voice with such resonating power that it seemed to completely block out all other sound.

"Hear me, mortals! Your pitiful attempts to delay the inevitable are ultimately futile! You may have defeated three of my lieutenants, but your demise is assured! Lay down your arms and I shall grant a quick and merciful death!"

A stark silence remained in the wake of the proclamation, a silence only broken by the muffled shuffling of Yulgash pushing himself back to his feet.

"That was Archimonde," Lucethious muttered as the silence dragged on, turning towards the entrance to the tent, "he's likely approaching the stronghold now. We had best evacuate before- before-"

He fell silent. They glanced about, wondering if he had somehow been silently slain, but he was instead staring, dumbstruck, outside. With a curious grunt, Torgall pushed him aside, and felt his jaw drop. Before them was Jaina Proudmoore, along with an entire retinue of magisters, shamans and witch doctors.

"What in the world-?" Yulgash said, joining them and staring in surprise at the sight. This caught the attention of one of the magisters, who turned and, spotting Lucethious, strode over to them.

"Lord Manadawn, sir, it's good to see you are still alive," he said with a deferential bow, before clearing his throat. "It is time to leave."

_Author's note: And so ends my unexplained hiatus! I'm really sorry that's been well, literally over a month since the last chapter. See, when I wasn't dealing with moving, I was revising for exams, and when I wasn't revising for exams, I was unpacking, and when I wasn't unpacking, I was finalizing my last assignments, and when I wasn't finalizing my last assignments, I was dealing with moving..._

_...so by the end of it all, I was so relieved to put it behind me that I just wanted to relax, veg out, play videogames, stay up late, blah de blah de blah. And so I kept staving off the fanfic, telling myself "I'll do it later. I'll do it later." Well, you can probably guess where THAT went... until in the end I couldn't really deny that I had become unbelieveably lazy, and kicked myself back to work. With any luck, this should be the only time I'll do this, and writing should proceed as per normal... or so I hope._

_Regards, thankyou for your patience =)  
_


	43. Twilight of the Gods, part 11

**Chapter 43: Twilight of the Gods, part 11**

"Leave?" Lucethious repeated blankly. The magister nodded.

"Indeed. With Archimonde on the approach, we must evacuate any surviving defenders in preparation for the final stand. Lady Proudmoore and the remaining magisters are to assist in a mass teleportation," he explained. For several seconds Lucethious simply stared, before seemingly pulling himself together.

"Of course," he said, nodding curtly. "Yulgash, with me."

With a quick gesture motioning for the human to follow, they both exited, Yulgash walking cautiously and tenderly after his ordeal.

"Will he be okay?" Torgall asked, frowning as they strode away. Fenris shrugged.

"There should be no permanent nor visible damage," he replied. "I was able to dispel the attack before it could cause any severe damage, and the healing was a complete success; his caution is, effectively, unnecessary." He shrugged before exiting the tent, with Torgall following. They were halfway across the encampment when something struck Torgall.

"Where is Greshka? And Torgus? And Rakaji, for that matter?" he asked suddenly. Fenris shrugged a second time, the movement in his massive shoulders easily lifting the totem slung around his back up and down.

"I'm afraid I do not know," he admitted. "To be perfectly honest, I've not seen Kunasha since early in the battle, myself..." he added, not without a hint of worry in his voice. He paused for a moment before assuring himself, "But she is wise and powerful - she knows how to take care of himself..."

Despite the confident tone he spoke in, Torgall got the feeling the tauren was trying to convince himself rather than anyone else.

They rounded the corner into the main courtyard of the stronghold, where an unexpected sight greeted them. The magisters, shamans and witch doctors had assembled in the wide area, with a variety of strange magical trinkets; the magi possessed beautiful glowing crystals, the shamans had a number of different totems, and the witch doctors had a various dark fetishes and idols. The crystals were twinkling and shimmering with barely-contained power, the totems thrummed with steady elemental energy, and the witch doctor relics were giving off an eerie glow.

They were all positioned in a particular pattern, so that the magisters formed a ring - beneath them was a hastily constructed circle of power, one which Torgall presumed had been partly magicked into being. Surrounding them in strategic positions were the witch doctors, though for what purpose their presence was neither Torgall nor Fenris could discern; and lastly, as though positioned in a guarding manner, were the shamans, totems raised defiantly.

Jaina Proudmoore was addressing the assembled spellcasters.

"...Thrall will call for a tactical retreat," she was saying. "The Scourge and Legion are not simpletons - it will take them mere moments for them to capitalize on our sudden lack of resistance. It is therefore imperative that we are completely, one hundred-percent accurate with our timing.

"As the defenders approach the gates, the shamans-" She gestured to the orcs and tauren on the outside, "will begin their chants to set up protective anti-magic wards around the magisters and witch doctors, while the magisters themselves will begin channeling their energies into the teleportation matrix. Once the defenders enter the stronghold proper, the witch doctors-" She indicated the trolls and their fetishes, "will begin to empower their spells. Once all defenders are safely inside the stronghold, the magisters-" She nodded at the various humans, elves and even the odd gnome, "-will unleash the contained power in their mana gems, further empowering the spell, while simultaneously casting the teleportation. If all goes as planned, everyone will be safely transported to the peak of Hyjal.

"Now... is everyone certain of their instructions?"

When everyone nodded or gave a grunt of assent, she reached into her robes and withdrew, from what Torgall could make out, a small engraved rock, carved into an intricate shape. It began to glow, and Proudmoore began to speak to it, though not loud enough for the gathered spellcasters to hear. Knowing that the Lady was no doubt casting some spell, rather than having taken leave of her senses and begun talking to stones, Torgall instead approached Lucethious.

"What is all this, then?" he asked the elf while Fenris moved towards the gates to observe the battle. Lucethious cast his gaze around the various spellcasters before responding.

"Well, as you likely heard Lady Proudmoore explaining, we're preparing to teleport all surviving Horde defenders to the Hyjal summit," he said, pushing some of his red hair aside. "We're collaborating our efforts with your allies' spellcasters to make it possible... this was all discussed before the battle, of course."

"What about the night elves?" Torgall said, frowning. "I thought you were working to utilize your spells with theirs?"

"To be honest, I've no idea what they intend to do," admitted Lucethious with a half-hearted shrug. "A small contingent of them assisted us at the base of the mountain, but since then... I suppose they're assembling all their forces for when Archimonde prepares to ascend the peak."

"Useful," Torgall muttered bitterly, though he sighed a moment later. "Well, it's too late too be helped - Archimonde is already approaching, we'll just have to-"

The rest of his words were drowned out by a deep, booming horn. The assembled magisters, witch doctors and shamans stood up a little straighter at the sound, appearing more alert and prepared, absently gripping their respective magical conduits. From the battlefront, they could hear an already perceptible change in the fighting. There were sounds of confusion at first, followed by a decrease in shouting and the sounds of metal on metal. A moment after that they could hear the unmistakable sound of many, many feet thundering along the ground - towards them.

A second later they could see the defenders rushing at the stronghold. The wolfriders were leading the charge, their enormous mounts' paws almost shaking the ground as they ran. Behind them was the myriad of defenders, troll, tauren and orc, along with the odd Alliance survivor, all sporting a variety of wounds, some looking confused at the sudden order to retreat. Overhead soared the windriders and batriders, circling protectively around the retreating warriors, swooping down to force the Scourge and Legion to break ranks if they came too close.

Unsurprisingly, the wolfriders arrived first, closely followed by the archers and headhunters, with the least injured warriors in tow. It was not long, however, before the rest of the defenders began to arrive in droves, with varying states of injury, ranging from the mildly beaten and battered to the grievously wounded. Immediatelly several shaman began to tend to them, but as it quickly began evident that the teleportation would need to commence, they were forced to abandon their healing in favour of setting up their anti-magic wards.

Fenris was now craning his neck, staring about to try and find Kunasha. Though he remained steady and tried to appear calm, Torgall could see a hint of worry on his features, and sensed a tenseness from the tauren. A number of Direhoof warriors had already arrived, and from what they could see there were more to arrive, but there was still no sign of Fenris' mate.

To Torgall's relief, he soon spotted Torgus and Greshka both striding towards him. Or rather, Torgus was striding, and supporting a limping Greshka, who, in addition to favouring one leg, was sporting a nasty bruise to one arm and a gash around her midriff. Torgall instinctively moved forward, but stopped himself, knowing that the female was made of sterner stuff than she appeared - moreover, the sudden movement caused his vision to swim wildly; he had not fully recovered from his concussion.

"You're looking well," he joked as they drew nearer. The corners of Greshka's lips curled slightly upwards, but the smile was quickly replaced with a grimace as she gave a grunt of pain.

"I've been better," she replied, giving Torgus a grateful nod, and the older orc released her - for a moment she swayed ominously, but managed to gingerly balance herself on both feet.

"What happened?" Torgall asked, surveying Greshka's various injuries - up close, she looked far worse for wear.

"Turns out she was the one responsible for hitting that blasted pit lord with the catapult," said Torgus, smiling at her appreciatively. "Unfortunately, in everyone's haste to put him out of action, a few Scourge slipped past. In her rush to return to the battle, she got stuck clambering down the catapult and a ghoul assaulted her."

"Bah, once I got a grip on my longblades it was barely more than a heap of rotting flesh," Greshka growled.

"Yes, but _before_ you got a grip, it did a pretty good job slamming you against the catapult," Torgus said, unable to supress a grin; Greshka snarled angrily and jabbed one of her longblades at him, though he easily dodged the half-hearted attack - the movement, however, caused her to teeter wildly, whereupon Torgall moved forward and grabbed her before she crashed to the ground.

"So what's the plan? Why did we get called to retreat? And why is the Alliance here all of a sudden?" Greshka asked, staring about at the assembled magi.

"We're moving to the top of the mountain - the magi are here to teleport us to the peak," Torgall explained. "Once everyone's within the stronghold, they're going to cast a mass teleport or... something."

"And what's stopping us from continuing the fight? We were holding strong!" said Greshka, frowning.

"You know full well the answer to that," Lucethious said, suddenly appearing at their side, clutching one of the glittering gems. "Archimonde has arrived on the battlefield. Standing against him is futile - he will utterly annhiliate any and all opposition, anyone or anything that stands in his way."

"Then what's the whole point of this, then?" said Greshka angrily, "If he's just going to destroy us in the end, then we might as well let it be now-"

"We have a plan - we must follow it," Lucethious interjected simply. "You must trust in our commanders' wisdom. The plan is sound, though it does rely on a bit of luck... we must simply hope it all plays out smoothly."

Without another word, he returned to the circle of magisters, his dark blue robes flowing behind him.

"Well, _that _was enlightening," Greshka growled, absently twirling one of her blades.

"If this Archimonde is as powerful as he says he is, however, I don't fancy futilely throwing ourselves at him," said Torgall, "particularly if we've an alternative route."

"And where's the honour in retreating?" Greshka argued, "If we are to die, it should be here and now, our heads and weapons held high - our enemies should know we will never be cowed again."

"But we _aren't_ to die," Torgall countered, "our leaders have a plan, and I say we follow it."

"We may very well, though!" Greshka shot back, "We ought to give it our all, and show these demons what it means to be a true orc!"

At precisely the same time, both Torgall and Greshka rounded on Torgus and simultaneously demanded, "What do you think of this?"

He was saved the trouble of having to choose sides, however, by Fenris dropping his totem with a cry of relief and rushing forward - they turned to see him embracing Kunasha, who had been pushing her way through the various Horde warriors milling about, trying to find her mate. She looked rather battered and worn, but she showed no signs of major injury. Her staff, Torgall noticed, now seemed to be chipped and cracked in some places as well.

"Wait," he said a second later, "where's Rakaji-"

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a defeaning _whoosh_ as the witch doctors summoned their own dark magic to empower that of the magisters. He stared in surprise as dark shadows loomed out of every corner of the stronghold and swirled around the humans, elves and other Alliance races assembled. Despite their threatening appearance, the shadows appeared to have no ill effect on the spellcasters - they danced and revolved drunkenly, casting shadows of their own over the Horde warriors.

To their dismay, the Scourge and Legion were swiftly approaching, being barely held in check by a mere handful of defenders trying futily to stall their advance; it resembled nothing short of trying to hold back the tide with a broom. The windriders and batriders circling overhead swooped forth, their strafing runs very slightly helping, but ultimately the efforts were lost - there were simply too many.

It came to the point where Thrall and Cairne Bloodhoof, two of the last to disengage from the battle, ended up forcing the gate shut, whereupon Thrall bellowed to Jaina, "Now!"

All at once, the magisters raised their crystals in unison. Immediately, beams of light erupted from each, connecting to one another and weaving an intricate, glowing web. This web spread outwards until it encompassed everyone within the stronghold. Together, the magisters began a chant, a noise compounded by the witch doctor's dark spells, and the battle raging just beyond the gates. The glittering gems glowed brighter and brighter, until the magisters, their voices trembling with barely-contained power, uttered the final syllable.

Simultaneously, the mana gems shattered, their crystalline forms crumbling to dust, the fine powder scattering on the wind. From the remains of the gems and the magi that carried them, a surging cloud of periwinkle-blue smoke billowed outwards, blanketing the entire stronghold in magic. Every being it came in contact with faded from sight in the blink of an eye, their vacated space immediately filled with the smoke. Torgall only had moments to watch in surprise as everyone dissipated before his eyes until the smoke came into contact with his own skin; as it touched, he shut his eyes as his flesh tingled violently - it felt as though he was being mildly electrocuted. A second later he felt as though his hands had been sucked into nose, his face sucked into his navel. The world around him melted, his vision faded- surely something had gone wrong-

-when suddenly his feet slammed against solid ground with such force that he was almost thrown completely of balance. He tentatively opened his eyes, only to regret it instantly: his vision was spinning wildly, and he had to shut them tightly once more and stand ramrod-stiff to stop his stomach from threatening to empty its contents. When he felt his balance returning, he slowly opened his eyes a second time - Greshka was nearby, eyes closed and grimacing, keeping her lips tightly shut, and Torgus was leaning against a nearby tree and looking pale.

To their side, he could see Fenris, Kunasha and their tribe assembled, their stoic silence unbroken by the tremors caused by the teleportation. Others were not made of such stern stuff - a great many warriors were stumbling around dizzily, and some were vomiting profusely. The shamans, Torgall noticed, had already set about tending to the wounded. He looked skyward and saw that all their aerial fighters had been brought with them, circling above lazily and seemingly unpeturbed by the magical ordeal.

Now that the world around him was settling, Torgall was able to take in his surroundings in greater detail. They were amidst a large clearing in a dense forest, and around them were a great many buildings of night elven architecture. There were several of the mystical glowing wells, along with a number of the ancient trees - a number of them, surprisingly, were uprooted and ponderously plodding about the perimeter of the glade.

Torgall quickly realized that, aside from the trees, they were not alone here. There were a great many night elves dotted amongst the landscape, both the warriors and the spellcasters. Several of them were staring in surprise at the suddenness of the Horde's arrival, while others were staring at them, eyes narrowed in suspicion or disdain; several were approaching them tentatively. A moment later Torgall saw Tyrande Whisperwind approaching. He looked around, expecting to see Thrall or Jaina Proudmoore - or more likely both - approaching her in turn, but they were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he saw Lucethious beckoning him over to one of the wells, where two of the male night elves were standing.

"I think you might want to see this," he said quietly, pointing inside the well as Torgus and Greshka joined them. Curious, Torgall approached the well and looked down into the shimmering blue waters.

And gasped.

A scene had coalesced within, and it was depicting the stronghold they had just been spirited away from. The gates had been demolished, and Scourge and Legion alike were spilling over the ruined walls. Gliding along with smooth, confident strides was the towering form of Archimonde. He looked much like the dae'mon Torgall had fought earlier alongside Fenris, but much larger, and with far more regal and ornate armour. He was making directly for the centre of the base, where, alone save Jaina Proudmoore and the wolf he was straddling, Thrall stood.

"You orcs are weak and hardly worth the effort!" Archimonde thundered, his words cascading down upon the two mortal forms below him, though neither of them relented, "I wonder why Mannoroth even bothered with you!"

To accentuate this, Archimonde thrust out a clawed hand to his side - several buildings to his left exploded forcefully, erupting into flames and sending charred and smouldering wood soaring. He lifted this same hand skyward, whereupon several infernals rained down, showering the courtyard in burnt dirt. The infernals ominously rose from their smoking craters, fanning out to flank their demon master, two aside. During this demonic show of power, Thrall and Jaina both stood perfectly still, neither speaking nor moving, but merely staring at the demon before them with cold fury.

"Our spirit is stronger than you know, demon!" Thrall bellowed in response. "If we are to fall, then so be it! At least now... we are free!"

With that, he raised Doomhammer and pointed at the towering demon before him: a bolt of pure white lightning - not unlike the one that Fenris had slain Anetheron with, but with a magnitude far greater than even the tauren summoned that even through the waters of the well, Torgall could feel its power raising the hairs on his neck - arced forth, lancing into the demon's chest, causing Archimonde to stumble back several paces. In that moment of surprise - the archdemon no doubt expected the attack to merely glance away - Jaina teleported both herself and the warchief out of harm's way. Archimonde's ugly visage changed from one of startlement to anger and fury.

"The wretched little whelp actually hurt me..." he snarled, surveying a large burn mark left on his ornate breastplate, but a moment later he composed himself. "Are there none left to stand against the Legion?" The archdemon chuckled savagely, muttering to himself, "This is almost too easy! If I'd known that this mortal resistance would be so weak, I would have launched this invasion centuries ago!"

Lucethious passed one of his carefully manicured hands over the waters of the well, which shimmered and went their translucent blue once more. Looking up, they saw without surprise that Thrall and Jaina had now teleported into the Horde's midst and were approaching Tyrande Whisperwind.

"You are injured," one of the night elves said abruptly to Greshka, pointing out the obvious.

"Indeed," she replied, unsure exactly how to respond. The night elf said nothing, but instead withdrew a small crystal phial from within his robes; Torgall caught hint of a rich, earthy smell from within their folds, and briefly saw a multitude of herbs lining the inside of the cloth. The night elf bent down and filled the phial with the pristine waters before looking at Greshka and motioning for her to outstretch her arm. Uncertain as to what was to happen, she did so, looking at Torgall, Torgus and Lucethious confusedly. Without a word, the night elf emptied the contents of the phial onto the bruise. Greshka gasped and instinctively pulled her arm back, and Torgall started, but a second later, before their astonished eyes, the purple-black bruise on her arm quickly faded from sight, leaving her green skin unblemished.

Again, the night elf filled the phial, this time handing it to Greshka and pointing at her stomach, where her wound was. Following his lead, she poured the waters over the wound - the half-dried blood was washed away, but again, to their shock, the wound was cured: the skin knitted itself together, leaving no trace of the injury. They opened their mouths to thank the night elf, but he and his companion were already wordlessly striding away across the glade. They merely shrugged at one another in mild surprise, and turned their attention to their leaders instead.

"I was under the impression that you were going to lend us support," Thrall was saying, trying and failing to keep the anger out of his voice. Jaina, too, looked rather angry. In response, Tyrande merely raised a hand and pointed behind them, to which they turned and followed the direction - Torgall, Torgus, Greshka and Lucethious also followed their gaze, whereupon they did a double-take.

Already assaulting the gates leading to the grove were the Scourge and Legion - a number significantly less than that which had lay siege to the Alliance and Horde bases, but one still large enough to keep the night elves preoccupied. From what they could see beyond the gates, there was a large dirt road beyond them leading back down the mount, along which several siege engines could comfortably traverse; Torgall was couldn't tell how they hadn't noticed it already.

"So many," Greshka whispered, shaking her head.

"Not enough to pose any real threat," Torgall added, gripping his axe, "we should have no trouble dispatching these..."

"Can we at least catch our breath?" asked Torgus, before laughing and unslinging his spiked maul, "Come! Let us crush their rotting bodies."

They made for the gates - along the way, more and more warriors became aware of the attackers beyond them - where, to their surprise, they found Gaznok Oilwrench atop them, who was screwing the cap onto one of several odd red cylindrical objects scattered about his feet; Torgall noticed they all seemed to have "EZ" either scribbled or stamped across the sides. Having already had several less than satisfactory encounters with the goblin's erratic inventions, they approached him cautiously.

"Greetings, friends," he trilled when he caught sight of them, "care to partake in my latest invention?" He held the indicated invention up, to which they saw a fuse was attached.

"Would you actually change your mind if we said 'no'?" Torgall asked exasperatedly, to which the goblin merely chuckled before lighting the fuse and stuffing it into the alarmed orc's hands.

"Don't worry, anyone can use it - I call it the Ez-Thro Dynamite! Just chuck it at anyone who looks at you funny and enjoy the show!" Gaznok said, laughing at the look on Torgall's face. Noting how quickly the fuse was burning, Torgall gave a cry of horror and lobbed the explosive over the top of the gates. It quickly disappeared from sight amidst the milling throng of undead and demons pushing towards the gates. For several brief moments, nothing particularly noteworthy occured, and Torgall was just about to ask the goblin what they were expecting when a thunderous explosion rocked the attackers below, sending rotting flesh and shards of metal armour flying everywhere, the latter of which tore into nearby undead and demons, causing further casualties.

"Impressive," Torgall admitted before raising his axe in a battle-ready stance, "but I'd prefer to face my foes in hand-to-hand combat."

With that, he leapt from the gates, Torgus and Greshka in tow.

Immediately they were beset from multiple sides, but through coordinated attacks, they were able to secure an advantageous position. Torgall landed first, crushing a zombie with his girth alone, and slammed his axehead into a skeleton standing before him, shattering the skull into tiny fragments, causing the bones to fall to the ground with a clatter. Immediately he ducked, and Greshka, having landed behind him, fired off several arrows in quick succession, causing several undead that had only just registered their arrival to stumble back in surprise. Torgall took advantage of that second of hesitancy, charging forward and and dispatching the stunned targets with three well-placed slashes in quick succession.

Torgus landed third, using his downward momentum to bring his maul crashing down on an advancing felguard, crushing both the demon's helmet and skull utterly; it staggered drunkenly for several moments before collapsing, one arm jutting out at an awkward angle and causing its weapon to impale one of its allies. Spurred by this successful attack, Torgus whirled about with a bellow, slamming the maul into a ghoul that was attempting to ambush Greshka from behind - the force of the blow sent the gibbering undead spiralling into an acolyte, causing them to both fall to the ground. Refusing to relent, he swiftly closed the distance and swung the maul downwards, the spikes piercing through the ghoul's flesh and into the acolyte's stomach, who gave a shriek of pain from the blow - satisfied that the ghoul was neutralized, Torgus quickly raised the maul a second time and silenced the human.

They quickly formed a triangular fighting position, each covering one another's flanks, with Greshka having swapped her bow in favour of her longblades. However, despite their solid fighting style, their element of surprise had quickly evaporated, and their initial advantage was already weakening. It was fortunate, then, that they had the night elves to come to their aid. Just as Torgall destroyed one skeletal warrior, a demon lunged towards him, claws and fangs bared to rend flesh. Just as it was almost upon him, still unawares, a tri-blade flashed out of nowhere, spraying demonic ichor over the orc trio - Torgall looked up in surprise, his eyes meeting with his night elven saviour, and he gave a respectful nod.

All the same, the enemy's ranks did not seem to be thinning - if anything, the flow of undead and demons was steadily increasing. That did not necessarily spell doom for them, however - as the next wave approached, a number of night elves astride their winged steeds swooped down, the talons of their mounts gouging into the attackers while their riders rained arrows down, causing them to scatter in an attempt to avoid the attacks. A second wave swiflty approached to reinforce them, but by this time the remaining Horde and Alliance warriors were assembling, streaming out of the gates with weapons at the ready. At the same time, several large siege weapons of night elven origin were rolled up, enormous glaives atop them.

As the fresh Scourge and Legion attackers clashed with the Alliance and Horde reinforcements, a third wave shambled up over the horizon. A moment later, the night elves fired their siege weapons.

With a heavy _thwock_, the glaive throwers released their loads, followed by deep _fwoom-fwoom-fwoom-fwoom_ as the thick metal glaives rotated through the air. With an audible crash, they landed amidst the distant attackers, the huge, thick blades easily cleaving through the undead and demons, or merely just crushing them entirely. The sight sent a cheer up through the defenders, one which was quickly dwarfed by an ominous rumbling.

A second later, the ground erupted with Nerubians. The spiderlike undead emerged in groups and clusters, either attacking their prey with poison fangs and claws, else unleashing swarms of tiny scarabs at their enemies. Where they were previously holding ground, the defenders suddenly found themselves pressed even harder. Torgall barely avoided a claw to the face, but taken unawares, the unexpected attack caused him to lose his footing, sending him spinning to the ground. To his dismay, the Nerubian quickly took advantage of him and scuttled forward. It was an ugly sight - the loosely bandaged undead spider bore down on him, its multiple eyes stared down, several cracked and missing, claws raised to strike. Torgall rolled to the side - if he could just angle his axe-

Abruptly, there was a sudden shrieking hiss from above, coupled with a blast of hot air. He looked up to see the Nerubian had been destroyed utterly, instead replaced by a smouldering pile of ash. Turning to look at the gates, he saw Yulgash, Lucethious and several other magisters, along with a number of shamans atop it. Unsurprisingly, it was Yulgash who had cast the spell - the young human had a shimmering aura around him, one which seemed to be emanating from the Cowl. Torgall found it surprising that the mage had managed to pick him out of all the other defenders, but supposed that Yulgash had magically enhanced his perception. Regardless, he was grateful for the support.

As were the the rest of the defenders. Several more platoons of demons and undead were making their way up the path, and so the magisters released a barrage of magical attacks - bolts of frost and flame, lances made of ice, arcane lightning and missiles of pure energy assailed the oncoming attackers, though the Scourge and Legion marched on relentlessly. The shamans struck next, summoning streams of pure flame and causing the earth to quake and tremble, slowing their enemies' advance. Coupled with the night elves aerial attacks, it did an admirable job of thinning out the ranks.

But no sooner had the ground defenders engaged this latest swarm of attackers did yet _another_ appear from over the horizon.

"Something is wrong here," Torgall growled, panting slightly with exertion has he swung his axe at a felhound - the dog-like demon yelped in pain as the metal sliced into its thigh. Torgall quickly put it down before it could retaliate, "these attacks are not getting any easier. The Legion may already be advancing!"

He opened his mouth to call for Torgus and Greshka, but the two were thoroughly embroiled battling a pair of demons each. Realizing that they were going to be unable to provide him assistance, he made for the gates alone, hoping that the other defenders would be able to cover his retreat. It was not the night elves, Horde or Alliance that kept the demons and undead at bay, however, but a tremendous explosion that cleared any attackers from his immediate area - he looked up to see Gaznok giggling shrilly over the battle, to whom he gave a grateful wave.

Half a minute later he was safely behind the gates, jostled slightly as several night elves dashed past him, bows at the ready. After they had finished pushing past him, he had barely taken two steps when a pair of males rushed after them, staves held high and inches from unintentionally concussing him. Shaking his head, he made his way as quickly as he could to the top of the gates - if his hunch was correct, then they had very little time, and he'd have to play his trump card very soon.

"Lucethious!" he shouted, pushing past the magisters until he reached the elf, who was so deep in concentration that when Torgall placed his hand heavily on his shoulder, he jumped almost enough to stumble off the gates.

"What?" Lucethious snapped, whether annoyed from fright or having his spellcasting broken, it was hard to tell.

"I need you to scry something," Torgall said quickly, gesturing at one of the wells in the grove behind them.

"What? Why?" Lucethious asked, so taken-aback by the question that he forgot to be annoyed.

"No time, just do it!" Torgall growled, grabbing a fistful of robe and pulling the slender mage after him. Lucethious gave a cry of surprise and pulled back, preferring to let himself be led rather than half-dragged away unceremoniously. They made for the nearest well, whereupon Lucethious, looking distinctly ruffled, tried his best to straighten his robe after throwing a disgruntled look to his orcish companion.

"So?" he said waspishly, "There's a whole plethora of demons and undead alike out there, and you've dragged me away from trying to beat them back!"

"I'm trying to find out _why _there's a plethora and not just a bunch of stragglers," Torgall snapped. "Someone's leading them and I need to find out! If it's who I think it is, then I need to know - show me the Horde stronghold!"

Lucethious glared at him witheringly but cast his scrying spell all the same. The waters glowed brightly for a moment before showing the ruins of the orcish buildings: already a number of Scourge buildings had been constructed in their place - though how they had been so quickly Torgall could not fathom - and the ground had become cracked, dry and deadened, as he had seen in the forests north of Ashenvale.

"What remains of it," Lucethious said drily, but he quickly sobered up after another glare. Torgall lowered his eyes to the waters, scanning the scene.

"If he's not here..." he muttered to himself, eyes darting to and fro.

"There," Lucethious said after several moments, pointing to the far side of the well - the towering form of Archimonde stood above all others, surveying the construction of the latest base with satisfaction: even as they watched, demonic gates were raised, allowing yet more legions of demons to stream out, and cultists and necromancers cast dark spells at the ground, raising the Horde warriors who were slain stalling the Legion's advance into undeath. Torgall glared and bared his teeth at the sight before replying.

"No," he said, balling one of his hands into a fist and clenching his jaw; his fears seemed proven true, "he is not the one I am looking for..."

"But then who are you-" Lucethious started to ask in confusion before the answer dawned on him - not that it needed to, for a moment later there was a booming roar, not unlike when Archimonde had announced his arrival on the battlefield, but this time it was the voice of another demon - none less filled with hatred and loathing, however.

"Cry for mercy!" it bellowed, echoing over the glade, "Your meaningless lives will soon be forfeit!"

The demon whom the voice belonged to needed no introduction. Standing beyond the gates, but tall enough in a form of menacing glory was an enormous, yellow-brown skinned demon. He was clearly of the doomguard, but in much higher rank - his size was comparable to that of Archimonde, but lacked the same regal appearance. His glowing green eyes were narrowed in disgust at the mortals assembled before him, though he was currently making no move to attack - yet. He was lightly armoured and unarmed, but his size and aura of power clearly marked him as the last and mightiest of Archimonde's generals.

Kaz'rogal had arrived at last.

_Author's note: I apologize for another delayed chapter, HOWEVER this time I strove to make it a lot longer to make up for it; this chapter is approximately twice as long as previous chapters have been (discounting chapter 42, which was also a bit longer than usual, but not as much as this). Also, I've started trying to update my current status in life and in general on my userpage, though I've been kinda lax with that - I will, in theory, be a bit more active in updating myself, e.g. warnings in case I get a bunch of assignments piled on me =P_


	44. Twilight of the Gods, part 12

**Chapter 44: Twilight of the Gods, part 12**

Torgall didn't even wait for Lucethious to comment, instead pushing past the elf and running at a brisk pace back towards the gates. Already streaming through were more and more night elves, armed with blades, spears, lances, bows and a myriad of other weapons; they were quickly followed by the last of the Alliance and Horde survivors, some still sporting wounds from the previous battles. It seemed that it was time to make a final stand.

Nervously, he glanced behind him, and did a double-take - the World Tree was surrounded by shimmering, glittering lights. This was no doubt part of the plan that their leaders had hatched, but whatever it was, he was certainly not privy to that information. Shaking his head and trusting in their judgement, he pushed on, ready to join the other defenders rushing to the frontlines.

The sight that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks.

The defenders were lined up, tensed and waiting, weapons at the ready - a mixture of all the mortal races seemed to be present. Torgall could even see some forest and dark trolls mixed in with their jungle brethren; he suspected the night elves had talked them out of their recluse to join the battle. A number of furbolgs he did not recognize were also on the frontlines; he reasoned that there must be another tribe nearby. The skies were suddenly bustling in his temporary absence: wyverns and the night elves' steeds - he dimly heard someone mutter "hippogryphs" - were soaring agitatedly, making sure not to stray too close to the veritable cloud of gargoyles circling above the Sourge and Legion. In addition, there were several of the ginormous twin-headed dragons, and as if answering to this challenge were a handful of the frostwyrms that circled above Kaz'rogal.

The night elf siege weapons were being hastily reloaded, with more glaives at the ready nearby; in the distance they could see meat wagons being rolled into position. Axes and blades were sharpened, mauls and maces ground tensely while the Scourge and Legion surveyed them from barely a kilometer away. Slavering ghouls babbled rabidly from the frontlines, while zombies shuffled around aimlessly. Skeletons clattered and waved their weapons tauntingly, and Torgall even spotted a few of the bone golems he had fought earlier. Necromancers and cultists chanted from the backlines, shimmering, from what Torgall could make of them, with an evil dark glow. Nerubians burrowed and unburrowed intermittently, some of them raking their claws along the ground, gouging deep trenches in the earth.

And then there was the Legion itself. Multitudes of demons stood, some, like the felguard and doomguard, standing stock-still, rigid with military discipline, while others, such as imps and more feral demons like the felhounds, scampered and slavered, itching to sink their claws and fangs into mortal flesh, else incinerate them with all manner of hellish magic; Torgall shuddered as he recalled the agony of the spell the satyrs and the dae'mon he had battled at the Horde stronghold. He fully expected to experience more of that.

Torgall glanced about - their numbers seemed as nothing compared to the combined might of the Legion and Scourge. There were multitudes of races ready to do battle, to die here and now, and even then it seemed like it would not be sufficient. A rustling caught his attention; emerging from the trees were - Torgall did a double-take - a number of night elf-deer crosses. The females had the upper body of one of the female night elves with the lower half of a fawn adjoined to their lower torso, while the males had the strong bodies of stags with powerful antlers; in addition, one of their arms was wooden, gnarled and twisted, a clawlike branch. With a start Torgall realized they looked startlingly similar to the Forestlord that was slain at the hands of the demon-corrupted Warsong clan, albeit smaller and, though still carrying an aura of natural power, did not command the same level of awe - while they stood with an almost feral grace, they lacked the ethereal splendor and majesty of their apparent leader.

"They are the Keepers of the Grove," murmured a night elf, making him jump. Torgall turned to see one of the males scruitinizing him closely, following his gaze. The night elf pointed at the females. "And they are their sisters, the dryads. Both are the offspring of the wise and powerful Cenarius - the Forestlord, slain by your peoples' hands."

The statement held no anger, but Torgall could sense the contempt and disgust in the elf's voice. He opened his mouth to retort angrily, but the night elf interrupted, adding, "Those are the chimeras, the guardians of the mountain. They have protected Kalimdor since the dawn of time."

Torgall looked up to see the night elf was indicating the twin-headed dragons above; he was about to ask the night elf a question of their nature, but the arrival of their leaders interrupted his thoughts.

Thrall, Tyrande and Jaina were at the forefront, the former two on their respective mounts, Jaina wrapping her cloak around herself protectively, though with her staff held up defiantly; Thrall's jaw was set, giving him an indomitable presence, a sight alone that was revitalizing, and Tyrande shimmered with a pearly-white glow, even in the middle of the day. She held her bow in front of her, though with no arrow nocked, and her enchanted blade was slung over her back at the ready, along with a quiver of equally enchanted arrows. Thrall had Doomhammer in one hand, and was absent-mindedly re-adjusting his grip on the shaft, as though undecided on how to carry the enormous warhammer.

Behind them followed Vol'jin, Cairne Bloodhoof and Nazgrel, the lanky troll carrying his wicked blade that glowed with the shadowy magic of the trolls. Cairne Bloodhoof moved with grace and confidence that belied his old age, and Nazgrel, loyal as ever, held his mammoth waraxe at the ready as he took up position beside his warchief. A night elf archer Torgall didn't recognize similarly took up position next to Tyrande, and a female human with an insignia that marked her as a Colonel stood by Jaina's side.

"The Legion will attack at any moment," the archer stated obviously, twanging the string of her bow in anticipation.

"We will stand until the last, Shandris," Tyrande replied, straightening slightly on top of her panther mount.

"Of course, Priestess," said the night elf, bowing her head respectfully.

"It will be an honour to fight by your side, milady," the Colonel said to Jaina Proudmoore.

"We will survive through this - on that you have my word, Lorena," Lady Proudmoore replied.

"Never make promises you can't keep," Nazgrel grunted, running a finger along the blade of his axehead.

"Jaina may very well be correct, Nazgrel," Thrall rumbled, twirling Doomhammer startling ease, "we will give this our all, and should the ancestors smile upon us this day, we will live to see beyond it. This I promise you."

Nazgrel merely gave a disbelieving snort, shifting the weight of his axe, the better to swing it. Torgall glanced uneasily at the assembled undead and demons before them - there seemed to be an endless tide. Cairne and Vol'jin seemed unpeturbed, however.

"Care for a wager, mon?" the troll said to the elderly tauren, flashing a pointy-toothed grin, "See who can slay da most demons an' undead, eh?"

Cairne chuckled somberly to himself.

"I'll be far too concerned with trying to stay alive rather than keeping count of my kills, young shadow hunter," he replied, "but by all means, you are free to tell me of your successes after the battle."

"Suitcha self den," Vol'jin said, smirking as he lowered his tribal mask with one hand and raised his blade with the other.

"The time has come, then," a gruff voice said in Torgall's ear, making him jump. He turned to see Fenris had approached him quietly, Kunasha serenely standing by his side, clutching her staff.

"Indeed," he replied, half-glancing at their enemies that were lined up so many distances away, "it feels like this whole battle has stretched for an eternity..."

"This final fight shall be the decider, then," Fenris said, looking up at the World Tree, "I think I understand, now, what the Kaldorei have decided to do... they've set up a trap for the demonlord. I think they intend to destroy the World Tree to destroy him."

"But won't that have terrible ramifications?" Torgall said, shocked. He understood little of the Tree or what it did, but what little information he had gathered prior to the battle led him to believe that it was of dire importance, not least of all to the night elves.

"The world will certainly reel from the damage, that is true," admitted Fenris, "but it is the Kaldorei who will suffer the most from it... they are linked to it, body and soul, mind and spirit... it is their natural connection to the world. It is why we tauren revere them so."

Torgall looked at the Tree again, with its sparkling and glowing lights, this time apprehensively - what _were_ they planning to do with it?

His thoughts were again interrupted by an angry call from a familiar pair of voices - he turned and saw Torgus and Greshka pushing their way through the defenders, apparently oblivious to the disgruntled mutters and glares they were attracting.

"Hey!" snapped Greshka, her former limp apparently forgotten as she pushed him back, "Where did you run off to in the middle of a fight, then? You can't abandon your allies, they might need you!"

Her voice was angry, but he could just see the hints of a smile twitching the corners of her mouth.

"I'm sure you managed admirably," he replied, smirking slightly himself. "You and Torgus aren't about to be brought down by a bunch of shambling corpses, I'm sure."

They both grinned in response, but quickly sobered - the gravity of the situation gave little allowances for mirth. The trio glanced apprehensively at the multitudes of demons and Scourge assembled across the battlefield, with Fenris and Kunasha both stoicly observing the defenders' battle line. Their enemy was making no move to attack them, but far from providing relief, this only served to make the defenders even more tense - what manner of assault were they planning?

As if to answer this question, Kaz'rogal slowly stared at the sky, his gaze lifting upwards - and though his mouth did not move, in every mortal's mind, a single word echoed, resonating ominously in everyone's ears:

"Fire."

In the blink of an eye, the world exploded into flames. The sky, previously blue and dotted with steely-grey clouds, was suddenly aflame with a blood-red tinge, the clouds turning an obsidian black. Molten fireballs rained down, incinerating anything they touched. The air suddenly reeked of brimstone, and acrid smoke clung to their lungs. Swirling flames were dancing around them, the very soil beneath their feet burning. Torgall, Torgus, Greshka, Fenris and Kunasha were wildly staring about in horror, screams and wails of terror assaulting their ears as the defenders milled about, frantically trying to avoid the searing flames. Chaos reigned, the defensive line crumbled, all semblence of organisation vanished in the blink of an eye.

Far across the battlefield, with a self-satisfied grin, Kaz'rogal surveyed the carnage with savage delight. Pleased with the results of his spell, he raised an enormous spiked hand, signalling the call to attack.

"Charge!" Thrall roared over the howling of the fire and the screams of the defenders, trying to restore order, "Slay the aberrations, in the name of the ancestors!"

To accentuate this, he raised Doomhammer, calling down a fork of blue-white lightning that struck the first line of charging ghouls, arcing from undead to undead and leaving only charred and incinerated flesh in its wake. The sight of this seemed to jolt the defenders somewhat back to clear thinking.

"Heroes of the Alliance, we must strike!" cried Jaina, raising her staff; it began to glow brightly with a blinding purple shine like a beacon. Pointing it at the oncoming attackers, it lanced out, a spear of searing purple light that struck the ground where a number of Nerubians had just burrowed with the intent of an underground assault - the earth exploded where it struck, sending chitinous limbs and dirt flying everywhere. The humans and their allies, revitalized by this sight, charged forward with battlecries, weapons raised and at the ready.

"Kaldorei!" Tyrande bellowed, her panther mount restlessly prowling back and forth in front of her brethren as she raised her bow, nocking an enchanted arrow; a flame sprouted at the tip, but unlike the hellish flames burning around her, this was a blinding golden, "We have bested these fiends in the past and we shall do so again! Strike with the power of the moon, with the strength of the stars! _For Kalimdor!_"

With her last two words, she unleashed the fiery arrow, and it soared high into the sky, arcing farther than any arrow should; as it travelled, the flame grew, consuming the shaft until it was a fiery, burning missile, streaking through the air and leaving a trail of golden and silver sparks. It landed barely metres from Kaz'rogal, exploding in a shower of flames and sparks, incinerating all demons and Scourge in the vicinity; the demon commander himself was unharmed by the blast, but he drew back and growled in fury as the flames licked at his leathery hide.

Torgall, for his part, was halfway across the battlefield at this point, charging forth alongside his orc brethren. The first wave of skeletons were utterly crushed underneath the stampede of orcs and tauren; few, if any, even bothered to use their weapons. Torgall felt the bones clattering off him, and it seemed to trigger something in the back of his mind - the Scourge were not infallible. They were not unbreakable. They _would_ fall.

The same thought seemed to have occured to the other defenders who, despite the fire swirling about them, choking their breath as the smoke snaked its way into their lungs, crashed over the attackers with unbridled ferocity. Torgall's axe moved almost of its own accord, the blade rending through the rotten flesh of the undead. Arrows rained down from the night elven and orcish archers, with the odd spear or javelin mixed in from the remaining headhunters, many of their number having been decimated in the previous battle. Most of the remaining trolls were on the battlefront, fighting hand-to-hand alongside their dark and forest cousins. Of the latter, some held back, hurling heavy stone axes with startling accuracy: the seemingly unwieldy weapons struck home, shattering bone and steel and effortlessly tearing through flesh.

The furbolgs were close behind, their bulk doing nothing to slow them down. These were different from the Timbermaw; they seemed more primal and feral, more akin to bears than thinking beings. Their savagery was no less, however - they crashed forth like a force of nature, their fangs and claws tearing apart their opponents as if shredding paper. Torgall saw with almost sadistic satisfaction as one particularly vicious furbolg leap upon a spindly human who gave a pitiful shriek of terror, before the bear-man sunk its teeth into one arm and pulled it clean from the socket with a spray of blood, and slashed the throat with its claws, the force of the blow snapping the human's neck.

As Torgall sunk his axe into a bone golem advancing on a prone tauren, the impact causing the hulking skeletal warrior's shoulder to fracture and snap, he felt a sudden decrease in temperature; looking around in surprise, he noticed a number of shamans, wards raised defiantly and channeling an anti-magic shield that protected the defenders from the searing heat. This spell renewed the defenders, who redoubled their efforts against the unrelenting tide that was the combined might of the Burning Legion and the Scourge.

A crack of lightning split the air, and Fenris unleashed an enormous thunderbolt that seared through several demons at once, leaving nothing but blackened armour. Slamming his huge totem against a felguard and causing its bones to shatter from the force, he next drove both hooves into the ground, causing the earth to buckle and heave in a direct line, unbalancing the attackers; several humans and dwarves took advantage of the destabilized undead, quickly hacking them to pieces. The siege weapons on both sides were reloaded and fired over and over again; enormouse glaives and rotting carcases soared over the heads of the combatants. A shriek from above briefly caught their attention - the skies were now filled with wyverns, hippogryphs and gargoyles, all slashing and snapping as they attempted to fell one another, the windriders striking out with wicked spears and the night elves firing arrow after arrow.

The skies were, if anything, more chaotic than the battle raging on the ground. The chimeras sprayed acid and lightning over the demons and undead, the green liquid sizzling away at the defenseless attackers. The frostwyrms, however, were not about to let this go unpunished, bathing the battlefield below in freezing breath before engaging the night elven behemoths. The cries of agony from those in the back line were cut short as the shimmering, icy blanket descended upon them and froze them solid in the blink of an eye.

The battle was raging furiously now, and it was all Torgall could do to keep his head. Kaz'rogal was striding along the battlefield, effortlessly sweeping aside any and all opposition through a mixture of powerful blows and devastating spells. Demons and undead pressed from all sides, with the defenders so bloodied and battered it was almost impossible to discern friend from foe at first glance. More than once he saw a comrade hesitate for but a heartbeat, only to be slain on the spot for their indecisiveness. Each time this happened he glanced worriedly at his friends, but Greshka, with her keen senses was more than able to seek out the correct targets, and Torgus, through years of hardened training was far too experienced to commit such a foolish mistake. Fenris, his senses enhanced by the Elements, was able to strike at the attackers without difficulty, and Kunasha was spending more time tending to the wounded to worry about attacking an ally, though on occasion she would unleash a column of blinding starfire on an advancing foe.

Curious as to what their other allies were doing, Torgall drew back slightly to allow a fellow orc to pass by him and engage a felguard, which gave him the time to risk a glance at the gates. The magisters were casting spell after spell at the attacking hordes - magical fire, ice, lightning and pure arcane energy were expelled in vast quantities; the enormous concentration of magical energy in one location was causing the gates to glow with illumination, and the hum of magic was audible even over the din of battle. The night elven druids were standing to the sides, simultaneously channeling natural energy into the spellcasters and using their ability to hold off any Scourge that managed to slip too close - for the most part, this was Nerubians who had burrowed underground to get as close as possible.

And then, to Torgall's surprise - not particularly everyone elses', given their preoccupation with the battle - the spells abruptly ceased. This concerned him greatly; not only did it remove a powerful amount of fire support, but it could also mean that something was drastically wrong. He was unable to devote further thought to the situation, however, as a doomguard intent on removing his head from his shoulders was fast approaching. Instinctively he raised his weapon to parry, but immediately stopped when he recalled what happened to Greshka's longblades, opting instead to roll to the side and dodge out of the way.

The doomguard chuckled heartily, raising the mammoth battleaxe it was carrying - one which thoroughly dwarfed Torgall's favoured weaopn - with one hand, preparing for a second strike. Instead, it roared in pain as, to Torgall's surprise, a jagged length of metal suddenly protruded from its elbow, causing the weapon to sag. With a furious bellow, it yanked the spear forth, causing the offending attacker to go flying over its shoulder and tumble to the ground - a lanky, tusked and blue offending attacker that Torgall quickly recognized as Rakaji.

"I was wondering where you disappeared to!" he shouted over the sounds of battle as the troll deftly leapt to his feet, pulling free another spear from the bag slung over his shoulder.

"Ah, mon, I only just got into dat crazy teleport spell dem magisters were castin'!" he yelled, grinning toothily as he jabbed at the doomguard, "Didn't have much of a chance to catch up wit' ya!"

He raised the spear as the doomguard furiously attempted to cleave him in twain - unlike Torgall, he was opting to parry, and consequently his weapon paid the price for it: the spear snapped in two like a twig. Unpeturbed, he rolled to the side, pulling free another one as he did so. The demon's distraction allowed Torgall to advance, giving him the opening he needed to sink his axe deep into the doomguard's unprotected lower leg. The towering demon gave a howl of pain as the blade almost cut completely through the limb, spraying green ichor everywhere and causing the demon to fall to one knee.

Unfortunately, while the attack crippled their opponent and almost completely immobilized him, the pain also seemed to grant it unholy strength. As Torgall approached for a second attack, elated by his initial success, the demon lashed out and savagely backhanded him, sending him spinning uncontrollaby. As he fell down, dizzy from the momentum and dazed from the force of the blow, he could dimly see Rakaji sprinting forth. He tried to shout a warning, but this caused his vision to swim even more, and he could not see what happened through the stars clouding his vision - but he could hear the gurgling cry that followed. Fearing the worst, he shut his eyes and shook his head roughly.

When he opened them, he witnessed a most unexpected sight.

Rakaji and the doomguard seemed to be frozen in some strange grapple, with the troll seemingly clutching the demon's head. What was strangest, however, was that the doomguard's arms were hanging limp, and it was making no move to resist. Rakaji was panting, from both exertion and adrenaline.

As he hopped back, Torgall saw what had happened. The doomguard had been impaled cleanly through the mouth, with the spear protruding from the back of the head which was blocked from his vision - it was the spear that Rakaji had been clinging to. The troll reached out to retrieve the weapon impaled in the demon's skull, but before he could reach it, the doomguard slumped over backwards. Wrinkling his nose slightly, Rakaji wrenched the weapon back, dripping with ichor.

"That was both extremely skilled and foolhardy," Torgall said, narrowing his eyes. He then smiled. "Which is just about how I would have expected you to fight."

"Ah, mon, sometimes da riskiest attack will strike da most direct killin' blow," the troll panted, giving him another grin. "Ya just gotta grit ya tusks and charge headlong- what in da name o' Bwonsamdi is _dat_!" he suddenly cried, pointing behind Torgall. The orc whipped about, expecting to see some nightmarish monster approaching, but was instead greeted by the sight of the gates thrumming with barely controlled energy. The very air itself was rippling from the unstable energies, undulating and hypnotising. The distorted atmosphere began to draw the eyes of all combatants on the field, the thrumming hum of power starting to drown out even the loudest slams of metal.

And then they unleashed the spell, a rippling wall of solid air. As the shockwave travelled, the magisters willing it forward as they channeled the spell, it seemed to slow down time. Torgall felt his thoughts and movements turn sluggish, as did those around him, as the spell passed overhead. The pulsating energy was directed at one clearly defined target: Kaz'rogal.

The towering demon saw the spell too late, and consequently was unable to counter it in time. As it struck, the shimmering, rippling air _enveloped_ him, trapping him in a bubble of slowed time. His roars became drawn-out, his movements slowed to a crawl, and his ability to cast spells was brought low. The apparently unstoppable demon commander at last seemed to be a surmountable target.

Until a single word echoed through everyone's mind, whispered through everyone's ears:

"Entropy."

Even encased within a shield of slowed time, the demon was still able to mentally cast spells. The fire and flames vanished, but now a terrible scene was unfolding at the gates. From what Torgall could see, the stone was aging, greying and crumbling, and the wooden supports became mouldy and diseased; the structure was collapsing before their very eyes. But worse yet, many of the magisters were undergoing a nightmarish transformation as well: their skin became aged and decrepit, their robes tattered and frayed; their hair became longer and greyed before falling out entirely. Worse still, their sagging flesh began to slough off their bones - Torgall could only imagine the terrible screams of agony and horror that they would be giving.

He could see, judging by the few figures that were jumping off the gates, that at least a handful had managed to escape - he could only hope that Yulgash and Lucethious were among them. Their frantic diving was not a moment too soon: with a thunderous rumbling, the gates collapsed, taking with them the glaive throwers and leaving crumbling rocks and splintered wood. Gone along with the gates and the magisters was their spell - Kaz'rogal was freed from the time bubble and had rejoined the battle.

And yet, barely after this had happened, an even more startling event occured - exploding from the ground like giant, thorny tentacles were a dozen or so gigantic roots and vines, reaching toward the towering demon. Were he not intent on keeping at bay demons intent on killing him, Torgall would have marvelled in awe at the sight.

He was, however, able to see those responsible: the Keepers of the Grove and their dryad sisters, who had been carefully lurking near the trees on the edge of the battlefield, were all chanting as one, their hands alight with a natural green glow. Moving their hands in unison, they commanded the swaying vines, causing them to whip out and grasp at the demon, binding his limbs and with two particularly strong ones lashing themselves around his neck, starting to throttle him. The entangling roots were doing what the time bubble had, but these almost seemed to have him.

Unfortunately, as Torgall expected, the demon was not out of tricks yet. Kaz'rogal started giving a rasping laugh, and while he made no move to free himself from bondage, a third word echoed through the minds of the defenders:

"Death."

Immediately the vines withered and died, browning and going limp wherever they touched the demon. The sudden slack allowed him to snap the roots with ease, but the spell didn't stop there; the death spread to the base of the roots, and as each root died completely, a dryad or Keeper still channeling the spell slumped over with it, dropping dead without a sound. The night elves, upon seeing this, gave a collective scream of rage and began battling with even more fury than before, but it was clear that the demon was not to be stopped anytime soon.

"Damn!" Torgall growled, glaring at the demon's foul work, "We can't let this go on! Rakaji, I need you to help me get closer to that demon!"

"You want to get _closer_, mon?" the troll repeated in disbelief, staring at Torgall in shock.

"I have a plan - it might let us win this battle," Torgall said through gritted teeth. The troll continued to stare at him as though he were insane, but nodded regardless. Torgall gave a grateful nod in return - now was the time to play what he hoped would be his trump card.

"Wait," he said suddenly; Rakaji stopped and glared at him.

"Do ya wanna do dis or not?" he said angrily, but Torgall wasn't listening - pushing past the headhunter, he battled his way through a cluster of lesser undead being mauled by a pack of furbolgs until he reached who he was seeking: Torgus and Greshka.

The pair were both fighting as skilfully as ever, neither showing any signs of letting up. Not wanting to take them by surprise and perhaps causing one or both to make a potentially fatal mistake, he instead fought his way up to them so as to give them ample time to see his approach.

"Was wondering where you disappeared to!" Torgus panted, grinding the skull of a skeletal golem with his maul, "How about that spell the magisters cast, eh? Never seen anything like it! Greshka was pretty shocked by it, weren't you?" he added, addressing their lithe comrade.

"Not now, Torgus!" she growled, slashing a ghoul that was leaping towards her and causing it to fall apart into multiple pieces; the head continued to gibber mindlessly, which she silenced by crushing it under her boot. A zombie shambled up to her next, still clutching the axe it had died holding. Judging by the stout stature, it was the reanimated corpse of a dwarf. The groaning undead swung its weapon at her heavily, but the clumsy strike was easily dodged. Utilizing the downward motion, Greshka struck the axe from behind, causing it to sink deep into the ground, and the zombie gurgled in frustration. Before it could wrench it free, Greshka cleanly lopped the head off.

"I need your help getting close to the demon," Torgall said without preamble, severing the limb off some grotesque spiked demon. The other two barely reacted beyond the slightest flicker of their eyes.

"We're in so deep now, one suicide plan's as good as another," replied Torgus, grunting with exertion as he swung his maul at a daring gargoyle that was swooping low; the spiked weapon crashed into one of the wings, shattering it completely and causing the shrieking undead to spiral into a nearby jumbled mass of fighters to be trampled.

"Just point me at the target and I'll kill it," Greshka said with the faintest hint of a cocky grin. Inwardly, Torgall smiled to himself in appreciation and motioned for them to follow him back to Rakaji. The troll, thankfully, had not needed to move from far from the spot, instead being able to expertly lance out at nearby enemies with his spears. When he caught sight of Torgall returning with Torgus and Greshka, he threw him a questioning glance; Torgall responded with a nod of confirmation.

Together, the group of four battled their way towards the towering demon, weaving in and out of the milling combatants. Torgall kicked out at a cultist, breaking the human's leg with a satisfying crack and causing him to tumble over with a scream of pain. Greshka lunged at a Nerubian, plunging both blades into the surprised undead insect's torso carapace, then ripping them outwards with a spray of rotting innards, tattered bandages and brittle chitin. To their side, a pair of felguard had been immobilized by two dryads and a Keeper in the same attack used against Kaz'rogal - taking advantage of this, Rakaji speared both before they could break free of their roots. Torgus, for his part, merely flattened anything in his path with a combination of his huge girth and heavy maul, clearing a path for them.

Within a handful of minutes they were close to Kaz'rogal, near enough to make out the intricate runes on his demonic armour. The battle was more one-sided here: the area was littered with the corpses of defenders, slain either trying to reach Kaz'rogal to wound him, or fleeing his wrath. There were others still present, but their fighting was desperate - it was all the four of them could do to remain in control.

Torgall fought his way closer. He was near now... if he could only just extricate the charm-

A terrible shriek of agony broke his concentration. He whipped around, scanning the area wildly, and his eyes found Rakaji: the troll was collapsed to his knees, teeth gritted in pain as he cradled his right hand - or rather, the spot that _used_ to be his right hand. The troll's hand had been completely severed at the wrist and was bleeding profusely. The culprit was a felguard clutching a jagged blade made of some dark metal; the demon was standing above Rakaji gloatingly, blade raised to strike the fatal blow.

All thoughts of his plan forgotten, Torgall charged forward unthinkingly, axe raising instinctively, his mouth releasing a bellowing roar. The sound startled the felguard, who was too slow to react, allowing him to effortlessly burrow his axe deep into the demon's unarmoured chest. The felguard's eyes widened in surprise, the blade still raised to execute the troll, then it gave a shudder as its legs buckled, and it collapsed.

"Are you alright?" Torgall shouted over the sounds of battle.

"Never mind this, mon, it'll heal," the troll replied, eyes and teeth clenched in pain as he attempted to stem the blood flow, "jus' do whatcha gotta do!"

Torgall stared blankly for a few seconds before realizing what the troll was talking about. He hastily straightened up, reached into his pocket and began to rummage about.

"Are we going to see what you have planned now?" Greshka asked, having come over with Torgus to investigate the source of the yell. Torgall grunted in affirmation, procuring a small charm, roughly carved in the shape of a bear's head.

"What's _that_?" Torgus said in surprise. Torgall looked at them both grimly.

"Help... I hope," he replied, before raising the charm and pointing it at Kaz'rogal.


	45. Eternity's End

**Chapter 45: Eternity's End**

For what seemed like an age, nothing appeared to happen. Torgall felt as though his heart had dropped into his stomach; they were lost, the plan had failed, Kaz'rogal would overrun their final stand, leaving the way clear for Archimonde...

But then he felt a warmth in the palm of his hand, and he could see small shafts of light from between his fingers. The sight surprised him, almost causing him to drop the trinket, but he continued to point it skyward. Those battling nearby also stared at his strange display, even pausing their fighting to see what the orc supported by only three allies, one missing a hand, was trying to do. The light began to grow stronger; he expected at any moment to be struck down, but no such attack came. After almost a minute of this, even Kaz'rogal was staring at him - and he quailed inwardly at the intensity of the demon's glare.

"So!" the demon commander guffawed in a rough voice that sounded like knives grating against bone, "What foolish act of defiance does this puny mortal intend to use against me? Can you not see this is hopeless? Cease your foolish venture and die like your worthless brethren, orc - this world is lost!"

"Not while I still draw breath," Torgall spat, thrusting the charm further skyward. This time it veritably exploded in a shower of light, causing Kaz'rogal to draw back with a snarl of fury, and forcing Torgall and his allies to shut their eyes tightly from the brightness. But Torgall did not need his vision to hear the deep, blaring horn that lifted his heart and renewed his resolve...

Eyes still shut from the blinding light, Torgall could hear new sounds. Enraged snarling, terrified shouts and calls to reform ranks from both the Scourge and Legion reached his ears, and even as his eyes adjusted to the intense light from above, he opened them very slightly to see a very welcome sight.

Furbolgs were everywhere, streaming in from the forests in enough numbers to match the undead and demons, numbers easily as great as the defenders. Many were heavily armoured, wearing the thick padded wooden armour that marked them as Timbermaw, carrying enormous mauls as large as a felguard. They were not alone - packs of bears were charging alongside them, hurling themselves at the attackers, snapping bone and armour with massive jaws and claws. To Torgall's surprise, not all of these bears were corporeal: many had a transluscent blue glow, just like the spirit companions summoned by Fenris and the Timbermaw shamans, but these were _enormous_. Hulking and rugged, they crashed through the ranks of undead and demons like spectral battering rams, obliterating anything foolish enough to stand in their way.

His vision steadily returning, he surreptitiously backed away from Kaz'rogal, who was now bellowing orders in demonic to try and maintain order amongst his subordinates. Motioning for his companions to do likewise, he turned around and saw a towering furbolg standing before him, covered from snout to paw in ornately carved wooden armour and carrying an intimidatingly large stone hammer that shimmered ever so slightly with a magical glow. The armour had majestic spikes curving up from the shoulders, and the helm cast a light blue hue over the eyes. Delicately crafted plates gave the impression of being built for show, but Torgall could see they were designed such that strikes would roll easily and harmlessly away from the wearer. The ceremonial armour was so startling that it took Torgall several moments to realize whom it belonged to.

"Meilosh," he rumbled appreciatively - even in the midst of a raging battle, he couldn't help but smile at the furbolg.

"We have responded to your call," Meilosh replied sagely, holding the hammer aloft; a bone golem attempted to sneak up from behind, and almost of its own accord, the thick arm carrying the weapon struck out viciously, shattering the hulking skeleton in one strike. Torgall couldn't suppress his surprise at the sight, recalling how difficult it was to defeat one in single-combat.

"What would you have us do?" Meilosh asked, straight-backed and rigid with military discipline - Torgall was mildly taken aback by this new side of him.

"Him," he said simply, pointing at Kaz'rogal.

Meilosh glanced up at the demon commander, then gave an articulate roar. Immediately a second furbolg arrived, this one similarly armed and armoured. Again, it took Torgall a couple of seconds to recognize him: Gatekeeper Rageroar. He had replaced his previous stone scythe with a polearm-like weapon that resembled a cross between a battleaxe and a sickle. The blade was not enchanted, though his weapon appeared to be the only one not to be made of stone, but instead of a strange metallic substance that reflected a faint green hue. His armour was not quite as decorated as Meilosh's, however, and the deferential growl he gave clearly marked whom was the leader.

The two briefly conversed in low growls, Meilosh gesturing at Kaz'rogal, and Rageroar gave a nod of confirmation before diving back into the battle and out of sight.

"Rageroar is now my secondary commander," Meilosh explained, "I was put in charge of leading the forces as I've dealt with your races the most - I know how best to coordinate my brethren with yours. Rageroar is my tactician, and together we will lead the Timbermaw in this battle against the dark ones."

"I'm glad you responded immediately to the agreed call," Torgall said appreciatively, kicking out at a nearby Nerubian to unbalance it and make it an easier target for an advancing bear, "too early and the advantage would have been wasted. Too late and it would have been lost-"

"-but at the right time, it wins the battle," the furbolg said, nodding wisely. "Would you have us do anything else?"

"If you would permit it, my friend is injured," said Torgall, pointing at Rakaji, "if your brethren could escort him back to the glade, I would very much appreciate it."

"Consider it done," growled Meilosh, before giving another roar - a pair of furbolg warriors arrived almost immediately, standing at attention. Meilosh directed them to Rakaji, whereupon one gingerly lifted the wounded troll, the other covering the flank protectively. A second later and both had vanished into the chaos of the battle.

"And now," the furbolg said, gripping his hammer eagerly with a ferocious glint in his eyes, "we fight."

Giving an incredible roar that turned the head of nearby combatants, he slammed the hammer against the earth, causing the ground to quake and tremor. One particular ghoul that was shaken by the impact turned, gibbering and slavering, towards the furbolg; with graceful ease, Meilosh brought the weapon careening into the undead's rotting ribcages, causing the top half to break cleanly away and topple out of sight while the lower half continued to run and stumble forwards comically before collapsing harmlessly to the ground.

The next target was a felguard - attracted by Meilosh's taunting roar, it stomped up to meet the challenge. Torgall moved to assist, but the furbolg gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Slightly confused but respecting his friend's choice, he instead went after a number of skeletons attempting to break past the front lines.

With the arrival of the reinforcements, the defenders were fighting with renewed vigour. No longer were they being overwhelmingly pressed from all angles - now they had the numbers to withstand the might of their enemies. True, it was clear that a constant stream of Scourge and Legion was making its way up the path to replace those that had fallen, but now it seemed much more certain that their plans would come to fruition. The earth and nature itself was coming to their aid, and Torgall watched in blank shock as the very trees sprang to life, shuffling out from the forest edge and slamming thick, heavy boughs into the undead and demons.

Even their leaders, who had been fighting valiantly, but with a barely-noticeable air of despair, were battling with a new, unbridled ferocity: Thrall rode from demon to demon, bringing Doomhammer crashing down with the force of a storm, else unleashing the power of the Elements in the form of quaking earth, blazing flames and searing lightning; Cairne's poleaxe cleaved through platoons of Scourge, levelling them like a blade through wheat; Vol'jin weaved his way through the battle, using his dark magic to summon lightning similar to a shaman's, though blacker in colour, or channeling voodoo magic to confuse and disorient his opponents, allowing him to close the distance and defeat them with a single strike. Jaina Proudmoore, having survived Kaz'rogal's deadly spell against the magisters, had rallied those remaining and was doing her utmost alongside them to support the defenders with a vast array of magical attacks, and Tyrande was riding gracefully astride her nightsaber, her flaming blade effortlessly lopping off the heads of demons, undead and cultists and necromancers unlucky enough to cross her path.

As Torgall crushed several skulls of the skeletons, he glanced back to see Meilosh's progress with the felguard. The two were battling fiercely, and the weapon of each was locked with his opponent's - as such, they were both swiping at each other in an attempt to gain an advantage. Both were using their free hand to swipe at the other, while Meilosh was trying to snap at his opponent's neck with his jaws; the felguard, by contrast, landed a well-aimed headbutt, the jagged spikes on its helm causing small cracks to form on Meilosh's. The furbolg drew back, snarling, as he tried to regain his balance.

This time Torgall moved and fully intended to assist, but again he was rebuffed, this time in the form of Meilosh throwing him a warning glare. In that small second the felguard redoubled its attack, and Torgall cursed himself for distracting his ally. Meilosh, however, was not about to allow his opponent to gain an advantage, and as before, slammed his weapon against the earth, causing the ground beneath the felguard to tremble and shake. The demon bellowed in frustration as it tried to keep its footing, which gave Meilosh ample time to raise his hammer and bring it crashing into the felguard's unprotected chest - the demon gave a roar of pain barely heard over the shattering of bones from the impact. Realizing Meilosh had indeed been capable of combating the demon all along, Torgall moved away to deal with a group of cultists, the sound of the felguard's skull being crushed ringing in his ears.

The Scourge and Legion, by this point, had managed to reform ranks, and the surprise of the Timbermaw's attack had worn off, but they were now the ones being put on the defensive - the furbolgs' numbers and sheer ferocity matched that of any demon. The bears they had brought with them charged forward, overwhelming the front line of undead, allowing the furbolgs to follow up - it was here that the true battle erupted. Fang and claw met with blade and spell in a frenzy of bloodlust. In an attempt to dissuade reinforcements trying to counter this fresh push, the archers from the back lines rained arrows down - the elves in particular, both night and high, struck true, with scores of undead falling before they reached the battlefront.

With the Timbermaw having taken the enemy's attention, the Horde, Alliance and night elves surged forward. Wolfriders, panther riders and knights charged forward in tandem, their enormous mounts barreling over their smaller opponents while they themselves crushed and cleaved their way through the enemy ranks with huge battleaxes, warblades, mauls and tri-blades. Those on foot followed up, with grunts leading the way: the heavyset orcs, alongside the furbolgs, used their girth and endurance to hold the attention of their opponents, allowing their smaller allies to slip past and further disrupt the enemy ranks, Vol'jin among them - a master of stealth and deception, the canny troll used his voodoo magic to cause chaos amidst the attacking Scourge and Legion.

The only thing that would have any chance of halting their counterattack would be Kaz'rogal himself, but the demon commander found himself beset from all sides by Timbermaw furbolgs and their bear allies, both mortal and spiritual. With the main undead and demon forces occupied, there was far more opportunity to strike at the towering leader: those defenders that managed to break through the front line of the Scourge and Legion made a beeline straight for the demon, intent on bringing him down.

Despite this, he was no less dangerous - in one instance, he swiped a clawed hand in a large arc, sending those struck by it flying. His enormous feet slammed and pummeled the ground, upending any too close to him, and more than once he cast a crippling curse on those nearest to him, slowing their movements to a crawl as they suddenly struggled with the weight of their weapons and armour, and another seemed to inhibit the ability of spellcasters nearby - on one occasion, this curse suddenly caused the unfortunate victim to explode violently, incinerating those nearby in a torrent of unleashed magical energy.

Nonetheless, it was clear that the demon commander was tiring. Between expending his own energy attempting to fend off hordes of attackers and shouting orders to his minions, he was making mistakes and leaving openings for the mortal races to exploit. Despite his towering height, his legs were still easily vulnerable, and any aerial defenders who were not distracted by gargoyles or frostwyrms were able to strike at his upper body. All the same, the Scourge were still making full use of their own aerial fighters - more than once, the defenders were forced to break ranks as a frostwyrm threatened to freeze them where they stood, and stray gargoyles constantly harrassed any stragglers.

The battle raged on. More and more Torgall found himself being jostled about by the myriad of defenders pushing forward, trying to pressure the Scourge and Legion more and more to give themselves more breathing room. The arrival of the Timbermaw furbolg had revitalized everyone's spirits, giving them the strength needed to take the fight to the enemy. He glanced over his shoulder; the lights were more numerous and luminescent than ever. He could hardly fathom what role they were to play in this fight.

A resounding crash forced him to throw himself to the side as a frostwyrm slammed into the ground, crushing a number of demons, orcs and humans that were fiercly battling one another. Another crash came as a catapult, salvaged from who knew where, lobbed a flaming boulder into the ranks of the Scourge. The meat wagons continued to fling heavy carcasses, but their aim was starting to go awry, with the rotting projectiles frequently missing their targets by a wide margin. In one case a chimera swooped down, spraying caustic acid over several of the siege weapons, reducing them to piles of twisted metal and sizzling wood.

Despite these setbacks, the Scourge and Legion continued to fight on savagely, supported by the constant stream of reinforcements shambling up the mountain road. Nerubians continued to burst out of the ground amidst confused and startled defenders, and in one case an enormous beetle-like monster burrowed forth, impaling several orcs and trolls upon its pincers before they were aware it had surfaced. Torgall, Torgus and Greshka, who happened to be near at the time, immediately moved to intervene; Meilosh, grappling with a pack of felhounds, dispatched the demons by way of effortlessly snapping their necks before moving to assist them.

The behemoth was unlike anything Torgall had ever seen: it was covered in a thick, pearly dark-blue carapace that simultaneously seemed to absorb and reflect light, and it possessed two wickedly sharp front claws in addition to its pincers. The carapace upon its back sported two sets of vestigial wings, and its crested head carapace gave the impression of a demonic helmet, complete with a scythe-like protrusion. Slamming the ground with massive feet, it gave an elephant-esque roar of defiance. A pair of tauren and a furbolg charged forward to meet its challenge, to which it merely struck them directly with its helmet-like head, sending the tauren spinning - the furbolg was less lucky, being caught by the jagged blade upon the crest of the head, becoming impaled by the wicked edge. Meilosh snarled in fury as the furbolg gave a scream of pain.

Torgall was about to advance when the beast lashed out with one of its front claws, the deathly sharp edge missing him by inches. Taking advantage of the behemoth's inability to attack as it maneuvered its claw back into position, he and Greshka rushed forward together, with Torgus and Meilosh directing themselves to a location better to confuse the giant beetle. Torgall immediately made for one of the legs - they were as thick as tree trunks, but he reasoned that the joints would be particularly vulnerable. Sure enough, he struck at one successfully, and while the axe did not cleave completely through, the blade sunk in deep, causing the undead giant to screech in both pain and fury.

The giant beetle turned to face him, allowing Greshka to dodge beneath its front and plunge her longblades upwards. Unfortunately, the underside was no less vulnerable than the topside, and the blades were deflected by the thick carapace. Cursing, she rolled to safety before one of the rampaging beast's legs could crush her. Torgus and Meilosh, meanwhile, attempted to strike the monster's backside with their weapons, the spikes on Torgus' maul driving into the chitin, but their attacks were not enough to distract it from attempting to impale Torgall.

Torgall was now dodging wildly back and forth, desperately trying to avoid the furious creature's strikes. Any of the limbs, even the injured one, were more than capable of instantly slaying him; he risked a glance to see if any of the other defenders were able to assist, but all those nearby were otherwise preoccupied with their own opponents. He was so focused on avoiding the jagged front claws that he failed to check his footing, tripping over the mailed legs of a mangled and barely-recognizable footman and tumbling to the earth.

The behemoth advanced, claws raised in anticipation. Torgall could see the bloodthirsty glint in the undead's glowing green eyes, ready to slay the one responsible for wounding it. However, just as he tensed, ready to roll to the side in a fruitless attempt to avoid the inevitable, the creature drew back with a chittering of pain - he looked up, surprised, to see that an enormous lance was protruding from the carapace. Glancing to the side, he saw a wyvern swooping skyward once more, and instantly recognized the steel helm of the windrider.

Taking advantage of the hulking undead's distraction, Torgall quickly dashed forward, out of the monster's striking area. Barely daring to pause for breath, he saw that Greshka was running in the direction from which he had just come. He tried to cry out a warning, but all that came out was a hoarse spluttering. The giant undead, fortunately, was still distracted by the long piece of metal extending from its back, and did not notice her carefully position herself underneath its head - and thrust her blades upwards.

The enormous beetle's movements came to a sudden, juddering halt - the limbs went limp, and Torgall and Greshka quickly dodged out of the way before the beast came crashing to the ground. In its single-minded focus of trying to dislodge the lance in its back, it had failed to notice Greshka aiming her blades directly at the exposed, fleshy joint that fixed the head onto the body, allowing her to fell the monster in one well-placed strike.

"Valnok Windrager saves my skin, I guess that makes us even for earlier," Torgall gasped, "but you take full credit for the kill, of course," he added, clapping her on the shoulder.

"First rule of battle: learn your opponent's weaknesses," she replied with a grin.

"Second rule! Only fools talk so much on the battlefield!" Torgus bellowed, seemingly appearing from nowhere alongside Meilosh as the pair jointly brought down a felguard. He straightened up before glaring at them. "Don't let yourself get distracted by idle banter, it will only lead to you a swift- to a swift-"

He broke off, staring in surprise behind them. Torgall and Greshka both turned to see that Kaz'rogal was on one knee, futilely swatting back a cluster of attackers. His movements were heavily restricted, however, by thick vines that had once more sprouted from the earth and were again binding him in place. Embroiled with trying to fend off his attackers, he had no opportunity to break free, nor prepare for the final attack that was being summoned.

At the foot of the crumbling gates, the surviving magisters, Jaina Proudmoore at their head, had gathered. Once more they were summoning a mass of volatile magic, but this time they were directing it at the leader of the Alliance forces. The small human female stood with her eyes closed and her staff raised, pointed directly at the demon commander. Undulating energy swirled around her, buffeting her cloak and robes, and catching dirt and leaves in a small zephyr. A guard of orcs, humans and night elves stood nearby, encircling her in a protective ring to stop any non-magical attackers breaking through; similarly, a contingent of shamans and witch doctors focused their energies, working to dispel any magic that might focus on their position. Kaz'rogal snarled in frustration, struggling to simultaneously free himself from the roots, beat back his attackers and get out of the line of fire, but only succeeding in rising to his feet.

Proudmoore's eyes snapped open, and even from a distance Torgall could see they were a fiery, burning red. With a cry in some unknown arcane language, she unleashed the combined magical assault, a roiling wall of pure blue-white magic energy. The attack passed harmlessly over the mortal defenders, but incinerated lesser Scourge and demons; those with more fortitude were flung mercilessly to the ground with bone-shattering force. Kaz'rogal gave a furious scream of defiance as the wave of energy drew closer and closer until it struck him head-on: the demon commander's cry was suddenly cut short as the energy illuminated his entire form, sending sparks running up his body from head to foot. The demon's head snapped back reflexively as the energy coursed violently through his body, magical shockwaves ripping through every limb and causing them to spasm uncontrollably. He continued to give rasping croaks of anger and pain until abruptly, the attack ceased, leaving him standing limp and smoking slightly.

With an ominous teetering, Kaz'rogal fell to a resounding crash that quaked the earth enough to collapse the remainder of the crumbling gates.

There was a startled silence, whereupon a victorious cheer went up amongst the defenders. The Scourge and Legion hesitated, unsure whether to attempt to continue the advance or not.

"ENOUGH!"

The victorious cry ended abruptly as a curtain of emerald felfire erupted to life, stretching tens of feet into the air. From within this searing portal emerged none other than the demonlord Archimonde, accompanied by a retinue of doomguard. As soon as he stepped out he raised a clawed hand, summoning forth a platoon of flaming infernals. He surveyed the suddenly-silent battlefield with a furious glare, though he stared at Kaz'rogal's lifeless form with more annoyance than compassion.

"So," he growled quietly, though easily audible for all to hear, "you have defeated my final and strongest lieutenant. I confess myself both surprised and mildly impressed. But no matter..." He breathed deeply before drawing himself up to his full and impressive height - he made for a fearsome sight, towering above the assembled combatants. Despite being comparable in height to his recently-slain subordinate, he appeared as a far more imposing figure.

"All of your efforts are in vain, for the draining of the World Tree has already begun. Soon the heart of your world will beat no more." His gaze shifted slightly, more towards the base of the enormous tree. "Mourn and lament the passing of all you have ever known and all that would have been! Arkin-kurai!"

He swiped one of his clawed hands as he spoke the final words, causing those caught within its arc to be reduced to ash in the blink of an eye, whether they were Scourge, Legion or mortal. He began to advance, his infernals and doomguard marching alongside him, and as he did so a seemingly endless tide of undead and demons began to pour forth from the demonic gate from which he had arrived. Where minutes ago the defenders had been pushing back the Scourge and Legion with surety, now they were hastily being pressed back towards the base of the World Tree.

Torgall didn't feel his axe fall from his hand; he didn't feel anything in particular, now. It seemed that despite their very best efforts, they were destained to fail after all. He made no attempt to join the fray as the defenders desperately attempted to beat back the advancing enemy forces - what was the point? Glumly, he watched as a flurry of leaves and green light burst forth at the base of the gates, revealing the form of Malfurion Stormrage.

"Yes," he murmured to himself as he watched the demonlord draw closer and closer, "it is indeed the time... your reign of chaos ends today, Archimonde."

He raised his ornate wooden staff, holding it horizontally in one hand, and from the other, a strong gust of wind issued forth. It fluttered around the battlefield, encircling the defenders; Torgall felt the light breeze gently tickling his skin and soothing him, even in the face of total annihiliation. Archimonde, having caught sight of the druid, began laughing.

"Stormrage! Have you come to witness the death of your world?"

Torgall stared up at the demon's face - how much like the draenei he looked, he suddenly realized. He wondered what the connection was between the Legion and that noble race - he supposed he would never find out, now... So be it, he thought. Let us be reduced to dust.

He blinked.

He blinked a second time.

He stared about in confusion.

He was no longer staring at Archimonde. The demonlord's terrible visage had vanished with such suddenness that he wasn't sure whether or not he was hallucinating. A moment later he realized that he wasn't even on the battlefield. None of them were. All those present had been whisked far, far away, beyond the clutches of the vile demon.

Looking about, Torgall saw that they were high up on a cliff overlooking the battlefield, with the sun setting on the horizon, far in the distance. The Scourge and Legion were mere specks, and Archimonde was now but the size of a bug. The demonlord was seemingly unpeturbed by the sudden disappearance of any and all opposition - Torgall figured that he was so sure of his victory that he had concluded that they, the defenders, had all simply fled in a vain attempt to prolong their lives. It was now that the realization struck him: they had been playing to the demonlord's arrogance all along.

Archimonde strode forth, surety in each step, brimming with confidence. As he passed through the glade, he obliterated the various buildings before him, reducing them to rubble with a mere wave of a taloned hand. With each step he took, he seemed to grow in size, his demonic form swelling dramatically. By the time he reached the hill upon which the World Tree's roots crested, he was unimaginably huge. Step by step, he began to literally ascend the Tree, climbing up the magnificent trunk, his tail swaying lazily behind him, each step causing the very bones of the earth to quake.

Watching from far away, clutching a large, curved wooden horn, was Malfurion Stormrage.

Torgall watched, along with the eyes of every mortal present, as the night elf raised the horn - the Horn of Cenarius, the name drifted across his mind without thought - to his lips and blew. A deep and defeaning roar exploded forth, echoing far across the valley that led to the base of the World Tree. The specks of light that circled it began to shimmer and glow more brightly, and Torgall saw in awe as from the dense forests, more began to join them... a handful at first, twinkling and glinting in the twilight. The winking lights grew in number... ten, twenty... Torgall blinked, no far more now... hundreds, no, _thousands_...

The swarm of lights rose higher and higher, flying directly for the World Tree. As one, they circled the Tree and the demonlord, spinning faster and faster, and even from the vast distance Torgall could almost see the confident surety in Archimonde's face falter: only now, at the very end, did he realize he had been duped, had been led all along...

As this realization struck, Archimonde drew back from the trunk, throwing his head back and giving a roar of mingled fury, anger, frustration, denial - he refused to be beaten, refused to let himself fall this close to his prize. The lights - Ancestral Guardians, Torgall thought, again not knowing how he knew - grew brighter and brighter, illuminating the Tree and the demonlord in a brilliant, blinding blue light. Stronger and stronger it grew, a beacon of shocking amethyst, with Archimonde's scream of rage echoing in their ears until-

The world exploded. A shockwave accompanied by a defeaning blast of sound that left every bone in his body jarring sent Torgall, along with every last defender save Malfurion and Tyrande, spinning to the ground. Dazed, he watched in awe as a searing wall of flame erupted from the base of the tree, incinerating Archimonde and coursing over the valley, leaving a blazing trail of flame in its wake; a great number of people screamed in fear as the flames drew closer and closer until striking the cliff wall, whereupon they dissipated harmlessly.

But the damage was evident: every tree stretching in all directions for miles were left charred and skeletal. The World Tree was reduced to a withered husk, and he could see the skeleton of Archimonde, still drawn back and frozen in a scream of fury and defiance, fused to the roots of the trunk. The demons and undead had been reduced to ash in the blast, and Torgall could not see a single living or unliving soul still remaining in the valley. The strongholds and bases they had hastily constructed were little more than rubble, and a heavy, uncertain silence hovered like a blanket over the cliff they were perched upon, permeated only by the terrified and relieved sobs of the remaining defenders.

The combined weight of all the prior events were too much. The pain from his injuries, the overwhelming myriad of sight and sound assaulting him, the unbearable mix of emotions...

He blacked out.

* * *

"So it is done."

Torgall's eyes fluttered open, the sound of Thrall's rough voice awakening him. He was unsure how long he had been unconcious, but it seemed to have been some time, an hour or so, judging by the smouldering of the charred remains of the trees in the valley. Apparently, the leaders had simply surveyed the sight before them the entire time, savouring the victory, but simultaneously coming to terms with its terrible, terrible price.

"Yes," Malfurion replied softly, still cluthing the Horn in one hand, his staff in the other. "We have defeated a great evil this day, but the loss is almost just as great as if we had not... It will be a difficult task, recovering from the damage of this day..."

"All is not lost, my love," Tyrande whispered, gazing at the burnt remains of the World Tree with tears in her eyes, "we will rebuild, we will survive through this, no matter the cost..."

"I hardly dare to believe that we are alive," Jaina Proudmoore said in a shaky voice, leaning on her staff for support, "it surely seemed in those last few minutes that we were to die..."

"We pulled through with but an inch from survival," Cairne Bloodhoof rumbled, observing the charred valley with a sigh, "more than once, I thought this aging heart was going to give out..."

"Dere'll be dire repurcussions for dis," Vol'jin said darkly, but immediately brightened and added, "but 'tleast we should be givin' tanks dat we survived. Oh, an' I killed a couple o' hundred, in case ya wanted to know, old one."

As the leaders converged to discuss plans for the future, Torgall looked about wearily to see he had been joined by Torgus, Greshka, Fenris, Kunasha, Rakaji and Meilosh. They were soon followed by Lucethious and Yulgash; Belpep, he noticed, was nowhere to be seen, likely skulking out of sight in the aftermath of the battle, if only for his own safety.

"I can't believe we survived," he croaked after a minute of silence. Torgus and Greshka merely nodded grimly.

"It was indeed a very difficult battle," Fenris said hoarsely, as if still hardly daring to believe that they had survived, "and yet knowing the cost... was it truly a victory?"

"We survived with our lives, my mate," Kunasha said in her gentle, soothing voice, placing a soft paw on his shoulder, "that alone is enough to celebrate it as a victory."

"And yet where do we go from here? What can we do? There is no place here to call home," Lucethious said despairingly, his face a pale white. Yulgash gave him an encouraging smile.

"We'll work something out. I know - I don't know how I know, but I know - that somehow, everything will turn out okay," he said. The elf stared at him disbelievingly for a moment, but managed a small smile, some of the colour returning to his face.

"How are you faring, my friend?" Torgall asked of Rakaji. The troll grimaced and held up the bloodied stump where his hand used to be; it had been crudely bandaged, but the wound was no longer bleeding.

"Well, even trolls can't regenerate damage like _dis_," he replied ruefully, and sighed. "But it beats bein' dead."

"And what of you Meilosh? What will happen to you?"

"A great many things," the furbolg replied, gazing into the distance without appearing to see what he was looking at. "Many of my people have died this day, Timbermaw and otherwise... and the dark ones have left a terrible scar on my land that will never truly heal... dark times loom ahead for the furbolgs. I despair at what the Timbermaw may have to resort to."

Torgall was slightly taken aback by this grim proclamation, but nodded silently all the same, watching a raven soaring gracefully across the night sky. It was a strange feeling, being surrounded by his friends in the wake of such a devastating battle - he felt as if he were in a dream, watching the moon rise and the stars wink to life, as if the night was celebrating their victory with them. Everything seemed surreal, as the intensity of the battle began to ebb and the reality set in: they had won, they had saved this land of the stars, nay, the entire _world _from certain destruction. The cost was terrible, there was no denying that, but relishing the knowledge that they had lived, that they had avoided such a dire calamity, eased the pain and soothed the wounds.

In his heart, despite all that had happened and all that was yet to come, sitting next to his friends, Torgall knew that just as they had faced and conquered the threat of the Burning Legion and the Scourge, they would face and conquer the future together, side by side.

**The End**

_Author's note: And so it is done! I can't believe this story is finally finished. It seems almost unrealistic, especially when I consider that I've been writing it for over a year. I want to give a big, BIG thanks to people who have stuck with it through to the end (you know who you are!), and of course to you for reading it all. In addition I want to thank everyone for sticking with me during these last few chapters, which became progressively later and later, and my excuses worse and worse. I've also included an Epilogue, so you get an idea of where the major and minor characters went from here. If there are any I missed, please tell me, and I'll put them in. That is, if you're interested in what happens to them next =P_

_Thank you all again for reading this, it means a lot to me, and I look forward to writing my next story - I already have a bunch of different ideas planned out! Just a matter of smoothing out which one is best to choose. Thing is, this story was almost written entirely as I thought of it - at best, I'd plan maybe two or three chapters in advance (which is why sometimes they came out so delayed - I was still trying to think of a fresh idea to use to centre the chapter around). As such, I want to carefully plan my next story out rather than jumping headfirst in - this story is an example of what can happen when I do that, both the good and bad =P_

_Anyway! I'd better wrap this up or I'll end up rambling on forever - thank you all one last time!_

_~ Oliver ~_


	46. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_"The roots will heal in time, as will the entire world. 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._

_As for me, I came back to ensure that there would be a future, to teach the world that it no longer needed Guardians. 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."_

—Medivh

In the wake of the cataclysmic battle and the aftermath of such a devastating war, the races of Azeroth were left shellshocked. Lordaeron had been annhiliated, as had most of Quel'thalas; the northern half of Kalimdor had been utterly ravaged, and countless lives from every race had been lost. The elves had sacrified their immortality in order to bring down a hated enemy, an enemy to all living things. The orcs had lost one of their greatest heroes in freeing themselves from the shackles of corruption, and the humans and their allies had no home to return to. With nothing else but a grim future to look forward to, the various races began picking up the pieces...

**Thrall**

Having led his people from the human lands, this was the opportunity for the orcs to take ahold of their future. Thrall gathered up the Horde and led them to the coastline of Kalimdor to the harsh lands which he named Durotar, in honour of his father, and began to erect the city of Orgrimmar, in homage to one of the Horde's legendary heroes. Thrall had no desire to lead his people to war with the night elves or humans, despite tensions in the aftermath of the war, and so bade the orcs to keep to themselves, for the time being...

**Jaina Proudmoore**

Jaina did likewise, leading her people further down the coastline and founding the city of Theramore within the murky Dustwallow Marsh. The marshlands proved hazardous and the least likely place to call home, but the hardy humans and their allies eked out a living here. They began trading with the orcs and trolls to the north, giving rise to a tentative truce, almost an alliance. For a time it almost seemed that peace had at last settled between the two former enemies, until old hatreds were roused again by the vile hand of the Burning Legion...

**Tyrande Whisperwind and Malfurion Stormrage**

With the Legion defeated, the night elves were forced to come to terms with the reality of being mortal once more. Age and sickness quickly set in, something that took the once-timeless elves completely by surprise. Together, Tyrande and Malfurion brought order to their people, but there were those who refused to submit to mortality. A sect of wayward druids hatched a plan to plant a new World Tree, despite Malfurion's dire warnings that nature would never bless such a selfish act - but soon after, Malfurion was mysteriously lost within the Emereald Dream, leaving only Tyrande to rule her people alone once more...

**Vol'jin**

The powerful shadow hunter led his people to the Echo Isles off the coast of Durotar - a place they were finally able to call home. For a brief, shining moment, the Darkspear tribe was at last safe from the dangers of living with other troll tribes - until the power-crazed witch doctor Zalazane shattered that dream. Forced to relocate, Vol'jin founded Sen'jin Village, named after his late father, and began formulating plans to dispose of the corrupt witch doctor and take back their home...

**Cairne Bloodhoof**

With the peaceful future secured for the tauren by the orcs, Cairne Bloodhoof suddenly found himself the inadvertent leader of all the tauren tribes - a role which he did not seek, but was surprisingly apt at fulfilling. With a land to call their own, the ancient tauren and his tribe erected the city of Thunder Bluff, where tauren of any tribe were welcome - tauren that were ever ready to fulfill their blood oath to the Horde for granting them a home for the first time in many, many centuries...

**Akinos**

Akinos led his own regiments in the battle, and single-handedly slew scores of undead and demons alike. After the battle he chose to retire for what he hoped to be a quieter life of diplomacy under the name of Akinos Steelclaw, but found this life was not suited to him, instead returning to represent the Horde, many years later, at the Argent Tournament. He never found out the 'deserters' in the Third War had in fact survived...

**Valnok Windrager**

Valnok continued to serve faithfully within the military might of the Horde as the lead windrider, and began the training of new windriders that they could be used for transport as well as battle. His service was rewarded accordingly, and he was eventually elevated to the Kor'kron, eventually serving years later at Agmar's Hammer in Northrend as the Kor'kron Wing Commander...

**Sapph**

After the battle, Sapph disappeared mysteriously without a trace. Torgall and his companions searched for her to no avail, and even attempted to contact her rangers and other military officials within the human forces, but no records of a Sapph ever serving the Alliance could be found; even her rangers denied having ever heard of her. Bewildered, Torgall seemed forced to conclude that she had simply never existed, and yet her pendant still remained...

**Gaznok Oilwrench**

His unintentional service to the Horde finished, Gaznok took the opportunity to tinker and invent to his heart's desire after Orgrimmar was complete, and helped in its construction with his questionably safe inventions. He chose never to return to the Steamwheedle Cartel, having no desire to once more become a bruiser, nor be stationed in Winterspring ever again...

**Major Davin**

Following the war, Davin was grudgingly promoted to Major and put in charge of the generally peaceful Northwatch Keep; few knew that he was in fact a hopeless coward in battle, and had been the survivor of the fateful Legion encounter simply by hiding. He eventually handed in his resignation after the battle of Northwatch...

**Colonel Lorena**

Colonel Lorena, on the other hand, received her promotions through merit, and became the Lady's aid in all things military for Theramore. She proved instrumental several years later in finding and freeing the Lady and Aegwynn from the magical trap of Zmodlor, and uncovering and thwarting the demon's plans to re-ignite old hatreds between the Alliance and Horde...

**Nazgrel**

Ever-loyal to his warchief, Nazgrel served as an advisor to Thrall during and after the construction of Orgrimmar. The orc proved to be the level-headed chief of military during the Horde's more trying times, particularly in the crisis perpertrated by the demon Zmodlor that threatened to undo everything they had worked for. Years later he would lead the Horde's expedition into their former homeworld of Draenor, now known as the Outlands, after the reopening of the Dark Portal...

**Fenris and Kunasha Direhoof**

Their people's contribution complete, Fenris and Kunasha led their tribe southward to the grassy plains of Mulgore along with many other tauren tribes to Thunder Bluff. However, having been so accustomed to the nomadic lifestyle of wandering the Barrens and other parts of Kalimdor, they eventually moved their tribe northward to the border of the Barrens and Ashenvale to resume their wandering of the land...

**Lucethious Manadawn**

The elven noble humbly received his accolades and commendations for his service to the Alliance and assistance in commanding the magisters during the final, crucial battle. His service done, he made preparations to return to a land that he thought still needed him, innocently ignorant to the terrible fate that had befallen his home...

**Yulgash and Belpep**

Despite his skills, Yulgash was still a novice magister, and having been expelled from the ranks of the Kirin Tor and with no other home to turn to, he had no choice but to remain with the military, intermittently being shunted back and forth between Theramore and Northwatch. Resigned to this lifestyle, he accepted his fate without complaint until he was able to take the reigns of his life - and follow a new calling...

**Rakaji**

Rakaji happily settled in on the Echo Isles alongside his Darkspear brethren, and despite the loss of his hand enjoyed a relatively peaceful life - up until the madness of Zalazane. During those intervening years, Rakaji became a skilled scout and hunter, even without his hand, and with the advent of the insane witch doctor, eventually assisted in the training of young trollish hunters and warriors to help take back the Isles...

**Meilosh**

Meilosh's dire predictions for the future of the furbolg race were sadly proven true. Unable to cope with the foul corruption left in the wake of the Legion's invasion, many tribes of furbolgs were driven to insanity, viciously lashing out at one another and other races. The Timbermaw, fearing retribution from their brief allies, retreated to the Timbermaw Hold, refusing any contact with the outside world in an attempt to preserver their way of life. As part of his experience with the other races, Meilosh became an ambassador of sorts to those races that proved themselves to the Timbermaw, while his subordinate Rageroar stalwartly returned to his vigil of Gatekeeper, steadfastly guarding the Hold from invaders...

**Torgall, Torgus and Greshka**

Still hardly daring to believe that they had survived the Legion's invasion, the trio set out to find their own destinies amidst the murky mists of fate. Greshka, never one to remain in one place for long, found the city life of Orgrimmar too dull, and found herself heeding the call of the wild. Torgus, now a veteran of three consecutive wars, found himself utterly exhausted by fighting and retired for a well-earned rest, though occasionally entering in the Ring of Valour. Torgall, suddenly returned to a way of life he thought he would never find again - with the exception being that now all the clans were as one, the orcs had reverted back to their shamanistic traditions and were no longer fighting for conquest or for the sake of fighting, but for their own survival - and found himself at a loss for what the future might hold...


End file.
