Beyond the Dark Portal

CHAPTER NINE

"Faster! Faster, damn you!" Danath lashed the reins against his steed's neck. His horse whickered in protest, its mouth flecked with foam, but obeyed.

Danath didn't hear the sound of the horse's increas­ingly rapid hoofbeats on hard-packed earth. He heard only the sound of primitive weapons striking home, the grunts and howls of savagery, the cries of his men as they fell, taken by surprise at that strange darkness that had abruptly dropped to reveal the orcs waiting for them. They'd been led right into a trap. There was no time to strategize, no time to do anything but fight, and too many were so taken aback they didn't even have time to swing before the green tide had washed over them.

Danath closed his eyes, but he still saw them fall. Horses and men both, going down beneath the on­slaught that was as efficient as it was brutal and barbaric. He'd been looking right at Farrol, about to cry out a warning, when a huge orc had literally bar­reled into the boy's horse and unseated him. The boy went down at once. Danath didn't see Farrol die, but he thought he'd hear his screams for the rest of his life. Farrol, all afire with a desire for battle and glory, want­ing to go kill his first orc. He hadn't even had a chance to strike a blow.

Danath had realized at once, sickened, that they would fail.

His men had seen it too. And they'd known what must be done.

"Commander! Get to the fortress!" Vann had urged him, even as he struggled with a much larger opponent wielding a club. "Tell them! We'll cover you!"

Other soldiers had added their voices in monosylla­bles, agreeing. Danath hesitated, feeling ripped in two. Stay here and fight with his men, or flee to perhaps save them?

"Go!" Vann cried, turning his head to shout at his commander. Their eyes met. "For the Sons of Lo—"

The orc had struck in that second of inattention, his club descending with deadly force. Danath had wheeled his horse around before Vann fell, and had spurred it on, screaming insanely at the beast, galloping away from the carnage and toward the fortress. Away from Farrol, and Vann, and all the others he had led here to their deaths.

Danath bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

They'd been right, of course. Someone had to warn Nethergarde, and he had the authority and familial connections to make himself heard. His experience and leadership skills, too, could not afford to be lost.

But by the Light, he'd never done anything harder in his life than leave his men behind. He cursed softly, shook his head to clear it, and yelled at the horse again.

The trail twisted and turned in the life-drained land. Red dust rose beneath his horse's hooves. Danath clung like a burr and glanced up at one point to see the vast stone walls of Nethergarde Keep. Already he could see guards atop its parapets, pointing down at him and no doubt alerting others to his approach.

'Open the gates!" he shouted as loud as he could, holding his shield high before him so they could see the Alliance symbol emblazoned there. "Open the gates!"

The heavy timber and iron gates slowly parted, and he galloped on through without slowing. Once inside Danath slipped from his saddle and turned to the near­est soldier. "Who's in charge here?" he demanded, real­izing he was gasping for breath.

"Sir, state your name and business, please," the sol­dier replied.

"I don't have time for this," Danath growled, grab­bing the soldier by his breastplate collar and drawing him close. "Who's in charge?"

"I am," a voice said from behind him. Danath re­leased the soldier and spun around, to find himself fac­ing a tall, broad-shouldered man in the violet robes that marked him as one of the Dalaran wizards. The man had long white hair and a matching beard, but behind the lines on his face his eyes were young and alert.

"Danath Trollbane, isn't it?" the mage asked. "1 thought you were with Turalyon?"

Danath nodded, both in confirmation of the mans statement and in recognition of Khadgar's identity, and sucked in air to speak. "Close the gate and arm your men! The Horde is here!"

Khadgar's eyes widened, but he did not argue. He signaled with his hand and men rushed to obey his silent commands. The gate was closed as someone came to take Danath's poor overworked mount and another approached with a waterskin. "What's happened?"

"Turalyon sent me with half the men we had at Stormwind." Danath gulped down water, warm but wet, and nodded cursory thanks to the man who'd brought it to him. "We left as soon as he received your message. He'll follow with the rest." He shook his head, wiping his mouth. "We were too late. The orcs have already rebuilt the portal, and they were waiting for us there. My boys… never stood a chance."

Khadgar nodded, his eyes somber. "I am sorry for their loss, but your warning gives us time to prepare. If the Horde plans to invade Azeroth again they will have to get past us first. And Nethergarde was built for this. They will not find this keep so easily taken."

"How will you defend it?" Danath asked, sufficiently recovered from his ride to glance around. "Doesn't look like you have that many soldiers, and I don't see any ballistae or other siege engines along the walls."

"We do not have many soldiers, it is true," Khadgar agreed. "But that does not mean we are without de­fenses, or weapons. You will see."

"I suppose I will." Danath bared his teeth in a smile. “And when they come, I will be waiting."

The orcs arrived an hour later.

They swept up the path, filling the trail like water roiling down a narrow chute, elbowing each other aside in their haste to reach the keep's sturdy outer walls. Danath and Khadgar stood upon one of the taller parapets, watching the scene below.

"Damn… there are hundreds of them," Danath whispered, watching the Horde literally fill the plain before the keep and advance in a great sheet of flesh and weaponry. In the thick of the battle, he had not been able to notice the sheer numbers.

"Indeed," Khadgar said. The young-old mage did not seem concerned. "Not as many as during the Sec­ond War, though — either they lost much of their strength in those battles or they are withholding part of their full force now." He shrugged. "Not that it mat­ters. We will deal with whatever they throw at us. You inquired about the keep's defenses? Watch."

He pointed, and Danath made out splashes of color all along the walls. Men and women stood there, clad in violet robes much like Khadgar's own. The archmage nodded then, and all the magi raised their hands as one. Danath felt his hair stand on end, and heard a faint hum. Then lightning arced down, destroying the first wave of orcs and scattering many of those behind them.

"Impressive," Danath acknowledged, his ears ring­ing from the accompanying thunderclap. "But how many times can they do that?"

Khadgar smiled. "I expect we're about to find out."

Turalyon crouched low over his horse, urging it on to greater speed. Even though he knew that waiting for re­inforcements in the form of Alleria's rangers had been wise, something inside him insisted that they might be too late — that something was already happening at Nethergarde. He wasn't sure if it was a soldier's instinct or his own insecurities, but the paladin, normally gentle with beasts, kicked his horse again and again.

Beside him rode his men, Alleria, and her rangers. Alleria threw him a curious look, noting his spurring of the mount, but stayed silent. He glanced over at her, wanting to explain somehow, but all that came out was "Something's happening already."

She opened her mouth for a quip, but closed it when she saw the look on his face. Instead, she simply nod­ded, and bent over to whisper in her horse's ear. He re­alized she believed him, and for a moment, the worry and fear abated before a quick warmth.

The ride seemed to take forever. Through the mead­ows and rolling hills of Goldshire and the little town of Darkshire, through the gray land that was aptly named Deadwind Pass, near where Medivh had lived in Karazhan, into the muddy, malodorous Swamp of Sor­rows. But now the land was changing, and Turalyon felt a lurch inside him as he noticed it. The foliage, though decomposing and unpleasant-smelling, was at least a sign of life. The ground beneath them was start­ing to turn red and dry, almost desertlike.

Alleria frowned. "It… feels dead," she said, shout­ing to be heard over the thunder of horses' hooves. Tu­ralyon nodded, unable to spare breath. They pressed on through the bare landscape, cresting a small hill. There, rising like a white peak above the blood-red surround­ings, was the keep. He drew his horse to a halt, strain­ing to see what it was that nagged at his mind, and murmured, "Something's wrong."

Alleria shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun. She could see better than he, and when she gasped, Turalyon knew he'd been right.

"It's under attack!" she cried. "The Horde — Turalyon — it's like seeing the force from the Second War all over again! There must be hundreds of them!" The tone in her voice was half horror and half glee, and the cold-hot smile of hate and rage had twisted her face again. He recalled their conversation upon her arrival in Stormwind. It certainly looked like Alleria was going to get the chance to exterminate a lot of "vermin." He hated to see her so hungry for death — and feared that that hunger might make her reckless.

'We're almost upon them," he said, to her and to his commanders, who had drawn up beside him. "We'll strike from behind, pinning the orcs between Nethergarde and us. Once we've defeated them we'll enter the citadel and fortify its defenses in case they attack again. Let's go."

They raced toward the last rise. Right before they crested it, Turalyon again called a halt. Just beyond them the trail climbed a final time, past boulders and up a short incline, and then the plateau opened before them. From here, they could see it all.

Ores, hundreds of them, were battering at Nethergarde's walls, though the keep thus far seemed to be weathering the attack with ease. Here and there were orc bodies. Turalyon saw at least one with an arrow through its neck; several others were badly charred, but some corpses seemed unharmed. He glanced up, spy­ing the violet-robed figures upon the fortress's para­pets, and despite the direness of the situation, he smiled slightly as he understood.

"We need to strike before they realize we're here. Rally the men and charge upon my command." His commanders, including Alleria, nodded and moved off to their own units, passing orders quietly. Weapons were drawn, straps were tightened, shields and visors were lowered, and the army advanced. Turalyon and the others crept forward, covering the last distance before the plateau, their horses' feet muffled by the dust; thank the Light, the orcs were too busy shouting and cursing and grunting to hear their approach.

It was time. They had gotten as far as stealth would take them. Turalyon took a deep breath and raised his hammer high over his head.

"Sons of Lothar!" he shouted, the power of the Holy Light magnifying his voice so it carried to everyone under his command. "For the Alliance—-for the Lightl"

His soldiers roared behind him, and several hundred throats uttered their own battle cries. Turalyon swung the hammer down and forward, and the charge began.

Some of the rearmost orcs heard his shout and turned, only to be trampled by the surging horses. Oth­ers were taken unawares, slain before they could even see the threat racing up from behind. From the fortress men cheered as Turalyon and his forces swept forward, laying about them with hammers and axes and swords. Alleria and her rangers fired arrow after arrow, drawing and nocking with inhuman speed, their aim unerring, their horses never breaking stride. In a surprisingly short time Turalyon had won through to Nethergarde's enor­mous front gates, which swung open as he approached. Turalyon hesitated, looking back over the battle. His eyes met Alleria's. He gestured toward the gate. She frowned slightly — she was as reluctant as he to leave the thick of battle, but they were the leaders of their units and she knew, as he did, that they should speak with the commander of the keep as soon as they could.

When she nodded, Turalyon spurred his steed through the narrow gap, crushing an orc that tried to follow. Alleria was beside him, close enough that her leg brushed against his, and then the gates shut again behind them.

"Ah, good, Alleria — you've brought Turalyon to us just in time." Turalyon turned toward the speaker and smiled as he recognized Khadgar. Roughly they em­braced; Turalyon had missed the friend he'd grown to so like and admire as they worked together through the Second War. He wished they were not reuniting under these circumstances. Alleria gave the mage a curt nod.

"I came as fast as I could," Turalyon said. He spied another man he recognized, and he smiled in relief. "Danath," he greeted his second-in-command. "I am glad to see you're safe." He glanced around. "But… where are your men?"

"Dead," Danath replied curtly.

"By the Light… all of them?" Turalyon whispered. Danath had taken fully half the warriors of Stormwind. Danath gritted his teeth at the words.

"The orcs had a nice little trap ready for us when we reached the valley. They slaughtered my boys before they could react." Danath's voice cracked ever so slightly. "My boys," he had called them. Turalyon real­ized Danath blamed himself for the deaths. "They sac­rificed themselves that I might reach here and warn Khadgar of the Horde's approach."

"They did the right thing. And so did you," Turalyon assured his friend and subordinate. "It is an awful thing, to lose the men under your command, but alert­ing Nethergarde was the first priority." He frowned. "Khadgar — we need to figure out why they're attack­ing now."

"It's obvious — they need to get past us to reach the rest of Azeroth," Khadgar replied, but Turalyon shook his head.

"No, that doesn't make sense. Think about it. They lack the numbers to take this keep, and they must know it. I'm willing to bet this is not the entire Horde — it can’t be. So where are the rest? Why attack with only a partial army?"

Khadgars white brows drew together over his youth's eyes. "You raise an excellent point."

"One way to find out," Danath said brusquely. "Bring me an orc, and believe me, I'll get out of him what we want to know." The way he said it and the set of his jaw made Turalyon flinch. He saw in Danath's face an echo of Alleria's single-minded ha­tred of the orcs. For all their brutality, for all the pain and damage and hurt to this world they had caused, he could not help but pity whatever captive Danath Trollbane took it upon himself to question. He only hoped the orc would speak quickly — for its sake, and their own.

They were waiting for his approval. He nodded re­luctantly and turned to Alleria, but before he could speak she had hurried up one of the towers, anxious to be doing something, anything. She called down the order, waited for the reply, then grinned fiercely.

"It will not take long,'' she said. Turalyon expected her to climb back down. Instead she stayed where she was, nocking an arrow to her long, elegant bow, taking aim, and joining in the battle from that vantage point.

The elf was right. Not three minutes later a cry went up outside: "We've got one!"

The massive gates were again opened. A pair of Turalyon's men rode through, half-dragging an uncon­scious orc between them. They dumped the body on the ground at their general's feet. Blood covered its bare green head, and its eyes were closed. It didn't stir as it hit the ground.

"One orc, still alive, sir!" one of the two men re­ported. "He took a good hit to his head, but he’ll live. For a while at least." Turalyon nodded, dismissing them. Both men saluted before wheeling their horses about and charging back out the gate, diving once more into the fray.

"Let's see what we have here," Danath muttered. He bound the orc’s hands and feet with heavy rope, then splashed water on the monster's face. It awoke with a start, grimacing, and then frowned and started to growl as it noticed the restraints.

"Why are you attacking us now?" Danath de­manded, leaning down over the orc. "Why hit Nethergarde when you aren't at full strength?"

"I show you strength!" the orc warrior roared, strug­gling against his bonds. But they held fast.

"I don't think you quite understand," Danath said slowly, drawing his dagger and idly waving it mere inches from the orc’s face. "I asked you a question. You'd best answer it. Why attack Nethergarde now? Why not wait until the entire Horde is here?"

Blood and spittle spattered Danath's face. He jerked back, surprised, then slowly wiped the spit off. "I'm tired of playing with you," he growled, and leaned for­ward with the dagger.

"Wait!" Turalyon ordered. He deeply disapproved of torture, and he was beginning to think that even if he permitted Danath to continue, the orc would say noth­ing of use — orcs had a high tolerance for pain — and chances were he'd pass out, or die, before speaking. "There might be another way to find out."

Danath stayed his hand. He felt Alleria's eyes on him, angry, wanting to see the creature hurt. But that would solve nothing.

Turalyon closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, reaching for the quiet, still pool deep inside him, the center where no matter what was raging in his head or heart, he was at peace. From that place of calmness, he asked for aid, for the Light. He felt a tingling along his skin as the Light responded, granting him its power and its unspeakable grace. He heard gasps from his friends and a frightened cry from the prisoner, and inhaled deeply, opening his eyes to see the familiar shimmering along his hands, his arms. Danath and Khadgar stared at him, their eyes wide in shock. And as for the orc, it was a huddled ball of green at his feet, whimpering incoherently. When he spoke, Turalyon's voice was completely calm and controlled. There was no place here for hate or the heat of anger. Not when one stood fully in the Light.

"Now, by the Holy Light, you will answer our ques­tions and do so truly," Turalyon intoned, reaching out and resting his palm against the orc’s forehead. There was a sudden, blinding flash of light. He felt a spark leap from flesh to flesh. The orc shrieked, and when Turalyon removed his hand there was a dark handprint there, as if it had been burned in. The orc shivered and groveled, weeping. Turalyon hoped he had not scared it senseless.

"Why attack now?" he asked yet again.

"To — to distract you," it sobbed. "From the thefts." It had been stubbornly silent before; now it apparently couldn't speak fast enough. "Ner'zhul needs things. Ar­tifacts. He ordered us, attack the keep. Alliance stay busy here, and not see anything else."

Khadgar was stroking his full beard. He'd recovered faster than Danath, who was still staring at the young paladin. Turalyon risked a glance up at Alleria to find her, too, looking at him with an expression of stunned disbelief. When their eyes met, she colored slightly and looked away.

"A simple plan, but simple plans are often the best," Khadgar offered. "What artifacts, though? And why would he need any such thing from our world and not from his own?"

The orc shook his head, trembling. "He doesn't know," Turalyon said. "He'd tell us if he knew." With the Light upon him so, the orc could not lie.

The gates creaked open just enough for two elves to squeeze through before it shut again. Turalyon glanced up as they approached him, his eyes narrowing as he realized they both looked exhausted. "What news?"

"Stormwind, sir," one of the elves replied. "Some­one broke into the royal library. The guards found the bodies of the two men stationed outside the door and the one inside. Looks like one died by an orc axe, sir."

"Orcs? In the royal library?" Turalyon whirled to stare at Khadgar, then at the orc, who cringed away. “Artifacts… ," he murmured, putting the pieces together.

"The perfect distraction," Khadgar was forced to admit. "Damn it. I'd say that simple plan worked very well indeed. We were busy here fighting the orcs, and someone made off with—" He turned to the elves. "What exactly did someone make off with, if anything?"

Now the elven scouts looked even less happy "Un­fortunately, you are right. Lord Wizard — one thing was indeed missing."

"And that was?" Turalyon prompted.

The elf cleared his throat. "The, uh… the Book of Medivh."

"By the Light," Turalyon whispered, feeling a knot form in the pit of his stomach. The Book of Medivh? The spellbook of the greatest mage in all the world, the man who had helped the orcs create the original portal? The book containing all the brilliant wizard's many secrets? In the hands of the orcs?

Beside him Khadgar seemed stricken as well. "Tura… I need that book! To close the portal!"

"What?" Turalyon cried.

"Medivh and Gul'dan created the thing. That spellbook could tell me how to close it! Not only that — if the orcs have it, they can use it against us in any num­ber of ways. This is bad. This is very, very bad."

Turalyon shook his head, reaching for the calm place inside himself. "I understand. But we can't worry about it right now — we've got orcs outside, and distraction or not, they're still a great danger. Our job is to protect this keep, and prevent them from spreading past it. Once that's done, then… well, we'll go from there."

He eyed his friends, who nodded slowly. He glanced up at Alleria, thinking he saw a hint of approval glim­mer in her green eyes before she again lifted her bow to resume firing.

"You're right, General," Khadgar said, inclining his head. "We have a keep to defend. We can’t solve a puz­zle if we're not alive to do so."

Turalyon gave a weary, worried grin, climbed back atop his mount, and rode again into the maelstrom that was battle.