Beyond the Dark Portal

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The rest of that day and evening was crammed with chaotic planning. Who should go? Who should stay behind? What provisions should they take? How long should they wait? Debates went from discussion to argument to even shouting, and at one point Turalyon thought Alleria and Kurdran might come to blows over how best to utilize the gryphons. Finally a plan was drafted that all could be satisfied with. Some, including Alleria, wanted to head out right then. "My rangers can see as well or better than the orcs at night," she pointed out, "and even you humans have the moonlight."

"No," Turalyon had said, putting his foot down. "We don't all have your vision, Alleria. And we're exhausted. The orcs would definitely have the advan­tage at night. You'll notice they're not attacking right now."

Her eyes had narrowed. "No, they're probably resting up so they can be fresh in the morning to have at us then."

Turalyon let her words hang there for a moment. Once she realized she'd made his arguments for him, she scowled, but stayed silent.

"Turalyon's right," Khadgar said. "We're exhausted. Dead on our feet. The purpose here isn't to kill as many orcs as possible and go down shouting battle cries, it's to get to the other side with as many as we can so we can stop something bigger than the handful that's at the gates right now."

Turalyon suspected the comment wasn't particu­larly directed at Alleria, but it struck home nonetheless. She'd turned first red, then white as a sheet, and stalked from the room. Turalyon automatically moved to follow, but Khadgar's hand closed on his arm.

"Let her go," he said quietly. "Talking to her now will just make things worse. She's as exhausted as the rest of us right now and isn't thinking clearly at the best of times. Let her come to you."

Let her come to you. Turalyon wondered, as always, how much the young-old mage knew, and if the phrase had been calculated or casual.

"Verana, a moment," said Alleria as she and her second-in-command left the meeting room for their assigned barracks. She indicated that the other elf follow her out­side onto the walkway, underneath the moon and the stars. Wordlessly, Verana obeyed. There had never been any question but that Alleria would be among those going through the portal at dawn tomorrow. Verana and a few others would remain behind, to aid the Sons of Lothar in case something went wrong. Verana turned inquiringly to her commander.

"I have a special task for you. One that goes beyond your military duties," Alleria began. "It is not maudlin to think that I might not return. That none of us might. We do not know what we face on the other side."

Verana looked troubled; they had been friends for decades. But she nodded. "Of course."

"If I do not come back… do not come home… bear a message for me to my family. Tell them I took the fight to the orcs' own world, to avenge Quel'Thalas and to keep our people safe from future attacks." She thought of Turalyon's impassioned, implacable words — that they could not release the horror that was the Horde on other, innocent people. A lump suddenly swelled in her throat. "Tell them," she continued, her voice rough, "tell them I went to try to save other worlds as well. Others who will, I pray, never know the pain of what we underwent. Tell them I chose to do this of my own free will, and that whatever happens to me … my heart is with them."

She fumbled in a pouch and emerged with three small necklaces. Each was graced with a glowing, beau­tiful gem: an emerald, a ruby, and a sapphire. Verana gasped and looked up, clearly recognizing the stones.

"Yes. They're from the necklace my parents gave me,"

Alleria confirmed. "I had the necklace melted down in Stormwind, and three lockets made from it. I will keep this one." She selected the emerald and fastened it about her throat. "I wanted to give the other two to Vereesa and Sylvanas when I—" She bit her lower lip. "Please. Take these home with you, when you are able to return. Give them to my sisters. Tell them this way, no matter what happens… we'll always be together."

Verana's eyes shone with tears that slipped down her cheeks. Alleria envied her the ability to weep. The other ranger studied the inscriptions, which Alleria knew by heart: To Sylvanas. Love always, Alleria. To Vereesa. With love, Alleria.

"You will return, my lady, and give these to your sis­ters yourself. But for now I will keep them safe until you do. This I swear."

Verana hugged her tightly, and Alleria stiffened. She had not allowed anyone to touch her in other than a perfunctory manner since —

Alleria let her arms go around her friend and hugged Verana back for a long moment, then dismissed her. Ver­ana saluted, wiped her face, and hurried back to their bar­racks. Alleria lingered, letting the fresh air calm her. An ear twitched as she heard soft steps. Quickly she faded into the shadows, frowning to herself as she recognized Turalyon. He walked to the wall and leaned against it, his broad shoulders bowed in the moonlight. Her sharp ears heard her name whispered; her sharp eyes caught a glitter of tears. She turned and vanished, moving silently the way she had come. The talk with Verana had unnerved her sufficiently. To speak with Turalyon now could undo everything she had worked so hard to create over the last two years. She would not risk it.

The general of the Alliance forces stood alone in the moonlight. Despite his advice to his troops, he had found himself unable to sleep. Khadgar’s words and Alleria's expression had haunted him, and his mind went back, as it had countless times before over the last two years, to the night when his whole world had changed.

He barely heard the soft whisper above the pounding of the rain on the field tent, and at first Turalyon thought it was merely wishful thinking when he heard Alleria's voice whisper, "Turalyon?"

He lifted his head and in the dim orange glow of the bra­zier saw her standing just inside the tent. "Alleria! By the Light, you're drenched!"

Turalyon leaped up from his cot, clad only in a pair of light linen breeches, and rushed to her. Shivering, the elf gazed up at him mutely, her eyes wide, her glorious golden hair plastered to her skull. A thousand questions crowded Turalyon's lips. When had she gotten back? What had hap­pened? And most important, why was she here, in his tent, alone at this hour?

All of that would wait. She was soaked and chilled, and as he reached to undo her cloak he found it to be as wet as if she'd fallen in a lake. "Here, he said, tossing the sodden thing away. "Stand close to the brazier. I'll get you something dry to wear."

His matter-of-fact tone seemed to hearten her and she nod­ded, stretching out small hands to the warmth of the glowing embers while he rummaged through his trunk. He found a shirt, breeches, tabard, and cloak. She'd swim in them, but they were dry. He turned to see that Alleria hadn't moved. Something was very wrong indeed.

"Come on," he said, gently, and led her to the trunk, sitting her down on it. Usually so self-controlled, almost haughty, at this moment Alleria looked like a despairing child. Biting his lip against the questions, Turalyon knelt and drew off her boots. Almost an inch of water was in them, and her feet were icy to the touch. He rubbed them briskly, noting how delicate and pale they were, until they warmed somewhat, then rose and helped her to her feet.

"Here are some dry clothes," he said, steering her back to­ward the brazier. "Change into those and I'll get something hot for you to drink. Then we'll talk."

Turalyon pressed the clothes into her hands and turned his back, blushing a little. He heard a soft rustling behind him and waited for her to tell him she was ready for him to turn around.

He inhaled swiftly as he felt a pair of small hands slip around his waist from behind, and a slender figure press against his back. Turalyon did not move at once, then, slowly, took the cold hands in his, lifted them gently, and pressed them to his heart. It was racing. He shivered as he felt chilled lips press a soft kiss onto his shoulder, and closed his eyes.

How long had he wanted this? Dreamed of it? He'd real­ized early on that he'd fallen head over heels in love with Alleria, but until recently he had never expected the emotion to be returned. Over the last few weeks, however, it seemed to him she had sought out his company; had contrived to touch him more often, though still in a teasing manner. And now…

"I'm c-cold," she whispered, her voice thick. "So cold."

Unable to bear it any longer, Turalyon turned around in her embrace, sliding his hands up her bare back, in awe of how silky her pale skin was beneath his callused, war-roughened hands. The dim light of the brazier caught the gleam of three gems on a necklace that encircled a long, swanlike throat and turned her skin warm and golden. His vision blurred as she turned her face up to him, and he blinked back tears of an emotion so profound it shook his very soul.

"Alleria," he whispered into her long, pointed ear. Suddenly he tightened his arms around her, holding her close, pressing her against him. "Let me warm you," he said, brokenly. "Let me take away whatever it is that's hurting you, that's fright­ened you. I can't stand the thought of you in pain."

He would do no more, ask for nothing more. He was terri­fied that at any minute she would recover, tell him she was simply playing with him, and retreat to a respectable dis­tance to discuss tactics or strategy with him. Turalyon would let her, if that was what she wanted. If that was what she needed to recover, to get the light and life back into her eyes, to banish this terrifying stillness.

She did not pull away. Instead she reached to touch his face.

"Turalyon," she whispered, and then in her native tongue, "Vendel'o eranu."

He cupped her face in his hands in turn, feeling the deli­cate hones of her cheek, realizing that for all her skill and en­ergy and fire, she was fragile. She'd never let him see her fragility before. Water rolled down her cheek, and for a mo­ment, he thought she wept. He realized an instant later that it was only a drop of rain from her sodden hair. Slowly, ten­tatively, he bent to kiss her. She responded at once, passion­ately, wrapping her arms around his neck. Turalyon felt dizzy as he drew back and she whispered, "Cold, so cold.”

He picked her up in his arms, astounded at how light she was to bear, placed her on the cot, and drew the furs about them both.

And they were warm.

Turalyon rubbed at his strained, tired eyes, blinking back what he insisted on thinking of as tears of exhaustion.

After their single night together, she had been gone the next morning. He'd emerged from his tent to news that shocked him to the core. Alleria and her rangers, of course, had returned from their scouting mission; he learned that gray morning, his eyes widening with compassion and pain, that the Horde had cut a dread­ful swath through Quel'Thalas. And that Alleria had personally lost no fewer than eighteen kin of various degrees of closeness — cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews.

And among the dead was her younger brother.

He'd rushed to her, but when his hand closed on her shoulder, she'd wrenched away. He'd tried to talk to her, but she'd brushed any words aside. It was as if they had never been lovers … as if they'd never even been friends. Turalyon felt something break inside him at that moment, something he'd since pushed aside and let scar over, because he was a general, he was a leader, and he could not afford to indulge his personal pain.

But when he'd seen her that day in Stormwind, soaked again to the bone, he'd thought — he'd hoped… well, he'd been a fool to hope. But a fool he would be, then, to the rest of his days. For despite everything, Turalyon knew he would always love Alleria Windrunner, and hold fast to their one night together as the brightest and most beautiful of his whole brief life.

They come.

Rexxar's voice was deep and calm. Grom looked to where the half-ogre pointed and nodded.

"So they do," he said, and gripped Gorehowl as his eyes brightened in anticipation of the slaughter to come. It was no token force that was left behind as the rest of the clans departed Azeroth. The Alliance would face fearsome opponents this day.

His glowing red eyes narrowed as he saw the num­bers flooding across the dead land. They had come in force indeed. Where was the leader, the one who had left his men to die to ride for a warning? Grom particu­larly ached to kill him.

Beside his master, Haratha whuffed in anticipation. Rexxar chuckled at his pet wolf.

"Come, little Alliance," murmured Grom. "Gorehowl is thirsty."

Turalyon reined in his horse as his group cleared the ring of hills that encircled a small basin and beheld the portal. If the orcs were indeed retreating, there were still plenty of them left behind. It was not going to be an easy canter to the portal. They'd have to fight their way through that ominous line of green-skinned beings and the huge, towering, pale things that fought alongside them.

Two warriors in particular drew his attention. Tura­lyon was not even entirely certain one of them was an orc. He resembled one, but his skin was yellowish-brown, not green, and he towered over the others. His build, too, seemed somehow different. Beside him stood a black wolf that Turalyon suspected was as deadly and focused as his master. A powerful warrior, yes, but not the leader.

There. That one. Larger than most, with a thick mane of black hair pulled into a topknot, a black jaw, glowing red eyes, and heavy bracers decorated with strange symbols, he stared boldly up at the superior numbers of Alliance warriors.

Their eyes met. Even as Turalyon watched, the orc leader lifted a mammoth axe in a salute.

'Were ready for you this time, you bastards," Danath muttered. His eyes were bright and he was more than eager for battle. As was every soldier present.

"Sons of Lothar! Attack!" Turalyon cried. His troops let out a yell of their own and streamed down from all sides. The battle was on.

It was a simple plan — kill as many orcs as possible while heading straight for the portal. Turalyon fought fiercely, swinging his hammer left and right and beating back the snarling foes that surged up to block his path. Close by him fought Alleria, seemingly as grimly joyful in the slaughter as ever. Some sixth sense prickled at him and he looked up just in time to see the elven ranger bringing a sword down on one hapless orc while another loomed up behind her, lifting a brutal-looking club. She didn't seem to notice the threat — her face was alight with harsh glee as she pulled her sword free from the green corpse. She was too focused, too intent on her revenge —

“Alleria!" Turalyon cried, clapping heels to his warhorse and galloping toward her. As if in slow mo­tion, Alleria raised her golden head, her eyes widening, her arm lifting the bloody sword to block the blow, but she was too slow, too slow, and he would never get there in time —

The prayer left his lips and he thrust his hands for­ward. White light shot forward and struck the orc square in the chest. He arched backward, the club tum­bling helplessly from his grasp as he crumpled to the earth. For the briefest of instants, Turalyon's gaze locked with Alleria's, then she was on to the next orc, and he too had turned back to the fray.

His eye fell upon the orc leader he'd spotted earlier. He seemed to dance through the Alliance forces. The heavy axe in his hand shrieked as it cut air and flesh alike, and the sound rose above the screams and groans of his many victims. He paused now and then to shout and point.

But powerful though he was, he and his warriors were outnumbered, and by the look on his face he knew it. The wave of Alliance kept moving inexorably forward, to the portal. The orc seemed to make a decision. He turned and shouted something to a cloaked figure next to the portal itself, and the figure nodded. Then the leader bel­lowed something else, and all across the valley his orcs hastened to obey, backing away from the Alliance and retreating slowly but surely toward the waiting portal.

Another movement caught Turalyon's eye. A cloaked figure reached down and pulled something from beside the portal's rightmost pillar. Turalyon couldn't make out what it was, but it was metal and it glinted in the light. Something about the way he fiddled with it made Turalyon nervous and for some reason, his mind went back to his conversation with the gnome Mekkatorque.

How safe will it be?

…I'm willing to bet it will eventually be as safe as the safest gnomish creation ever…

The orcs were suddenly trying to get through, whereas before they had fought. Khadgar had confirmed that they'd had the artifacts they needed and they were likely ready to —

"Damn it!" Turalyon cried. He hoped he was wrong. He looked over the sea of fighting men and orcs and saw Khadgar and another group of magi. He rode to­ward them, gasping out what he'd seen.

Khadgar frowned as he listened. "If I were them, I'd head for home too — but first I'd destroy the portal be­hind me so no one here could interfere."

"My thoughts too. I think it's something mechanical — like something the gnomes would make."

"Or the goblins," said Khadgar. Both men knew that, unlike the gnomes, who were firmly on the Al­liance side, the recently encountered goblins happily sold their mechanical gizmos to both sides. "We de­stroyed the last portal. They can certainly destroy this one. And without Medivh's book and Guldan's skull, I doubt I could reopen it."

"Then let's go. I’ll hold them off," Turalyon said, al­ready wheeling his horse to charge the portal. Khadgar was right behind him. Turalyon battered away at the orcs, cutting a path through them like a man possessed. Khadgar bore down on the portal and the figure adjust­ing something beside it. Leaning over in his saddle, Khadgar slashed at the figure, who turned at the last second, though not fast enough to avoid a blow to the neck. It wasn't a strong enough blow to kill him at once, but the cloaked figure grunted in pain and dropped the device, his hands flying to his neck.

Swinging down from his horse, Khadgar ran over and grabbed up the strange machine. It was the size of a small shield, definitely mechanical… and it was making an odd ticking sound. He analyzed it quickly, but the construction was too alien. There was no way he could stop it. Whatever it had been intended to do, it was going to do it soon. Grunting, the mage lifted the package and threw it as far as he could, augmenting his physical strength with magic so that it arced out over the valley and looked like it might even glance off the cliff walls along that side.

The explosion rocked the entire valley.

Grom swore, ducking and covering his head, feeling stings along his back and shoulders where he had been peppered with small fragments of shattered rock. He looked up, rage burning inside him, and strode with dreadful purpose to the warlock. Kra'kul looked as shocked as Grom felt and cowered as Grom's fist de­scended.

"Traitor! You would kill us!"

"No! No, I swear, I was told it was a shield, a shield to protect us! I didn't know!"

Red swam before Grom's eyes as he lifted the cring­ing warlock with one hand and shook him. How he wanted to crush the orc's windpipe, to rip his head off and throw it as the elderly human had thrown the de­vice that Grom had been told would protect them but instead had nearly killed them.

'Who told you this? Where is he, that I may tear his heart out!" Roughly he shook the warlock, curbing his bloodlust with great effort.

"I don't know — Malkor was sent to do it — he told me it was a shield—"

Cursing, Grom hurled the worthless wretch away and turned back to the fight.

Grom had been told the device was a shield, so that at the last moment, the Warsong clan could safely es­cape. He had been lied to. Someone in a position of power — Gorefiend? Ner'zhul?—had intended that the warriors left behind would not escape with their lives.

Grom vowed to survive this battle, unlikely as it seemed, so that someone would pay.

The explosion had rattled his people. The Alliance had recovered more quickly than the orcs, and Grom saw; furious and helpless, that they were being herded like beasts to the southwest. Yet he could do nothing about it. One group came from one side, a second blocked off the exit from another, forcing the orcs back and into a narrow valley mouth, away from the portal. Away from home.

"So be it," he growled. The Alliance might have this victory, but it would cost them dearly. He threw his head back, opened his jaw wide, and let forth a scream that froze two Alliance warriors in mid-swing. "Fight, my Warsong, fight like the orcs you are! Let your blood sing with battle lust! Tear them to pieces! For the Horde!"

* * *

"Someone has to stay here and watch this crew," Turalyon said, reining in beside Alleria and Khadgar and waiting for Kurdran to circle low enough to hear the conversation. "I'll station some men at the mouth of this valley to keep them from escaping again. Everyone else—"

He fell silent. Khadgar didn't envy him. No one really wanted to go through the Dark Portal — although he had to admit, a small part of him, the part that had led to him become a mage in the first place, was very curious about what lay beyond it.

"Well,” Turalyon said. "We know what we need to do. Each of you, tell your units one more time that this is a volunteer expedition. I'll not force any soldier to cross worlds if he does not wish to."

Danath nodded and wheeled his mount away, bel­lowing orders. Alleria turned back to her rangers, and spoke softly to them in their musical language. Khadgar gave Turalyon a reassuring smile, but the paladin didn't return it. Quietly he said to Khadgar, "Alleria was al­most killed today. I was barely able to save her."

"Turalyon," Khadgar said, equally quietly, "she's a trained warrior. She can outfight both of us, probably. You know that."

"That's not what I'm worried about. I know she can handle herself, normally. But… she gets careless. She gets—" His voice faltered, and Khadgar had to look away from the pain on the youth's face.

“She puts killing orcs before her own safety," Khadgar said. "She takes undue risks.” Turalyon nod­ded miserably. "Well, now we take the fight to them, Turalyon. It could be good for her. For both of you."

Turalyon flushed slightly, but didn't answer. His eyes were on his troops now, and he guided his horse so that he was among them.

"Sons of Lothar!" he cried. "We have faced battle be­fore. We have faced loss, and defeat, and known victory. Now we face the unknown." He caught Khadgar's eye and smiled slightly. "We take the fight to them. And we stop them — so they never trouble us, or other innocent worlds, ever again. For the Alliance! For the Light!"

He lifted his hammer and a cheer rose up as the hammer began to glow with a sharp, clear white radi­ance. Khadgar nodded to himself. This was what both he and Anduin Lothar had sensed in Turalyon when they had first met him. It seemed a lifetime ago, now. Both the Alliance commander and the mage had known even then that this priest-turned-holy warrior would rise to the challenge. Would blend his almost in­nocent and inherent decency with a fierce determina­tion to protect his people. Would stand now, at the head of an army, rallying them to cross into a com­pletely new world. Khadgar wondered if his friend saw, really saw, how much he inspired his soldiers. And how he inspired one in particular, who was looking at him now with an all-too-rare unguarded expression on her beautiful, elven face.

Turalyon turned his horse and spurred it up the stone ramp toward the Dark Portal itself. His steed shied, resisting, but Turalyon held the reins firm and forced it on. The swirling light beckoned, and he passed through it, its greenish glow overpowering his own white light for an instant before he vanished completely between the columns. Alleria and Khadgar were right behind him. The mage wrestled with his horse and felt a curious sensation as man and beast entered the rift, a ripple of cold and a tugging feeling, as if a strong cur­rent pulled at him. A chill swept over him, and for an in­stant he saw blackness and stars and swirls and flashes of strange colors all mingled together. Then he was emerging, and the hot air warmed skin that had grown inexplicably cold during the brief crossing.

Bright … it was so very bright. He automatically lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. And hot, too, a dry, savage heat that struck Khadgar as being al­most physical. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust — and gasped.

He stood on stone, dwarfed by a version of the por­tal that was as huge and elaborate as the one they'd just crossed through was perfunctory and hastily assem­bled. Statues of hooded men towered on either side, and the stairs led down to a second courtyard flanked by enormous, sullenly burning braziers. Two pillars topped with fire stood on either side of a strangely made road and…

The cracked, red, barren plain that stretched before them was somewhat familiar, evocative of the Blasted Lands. Even as he stared, in the distance the desiccated earth cracked open. Fire leaped upward as if a dragon were hatching, breaking through the earth as if from its shell. But Khadgar's eyes were fixed on the sky. It was red, the deep red of fresh blood, and high above shone an angry crimson sun, its heat beating down upon them. And, Light help him, the sky, too, was fa­miliar.

"No," he said in a broken voice. "No," he whispered again. "Not here! Not like this!"

"What is it?" Alleria asked him. He ignored her. It was all as it was in the vision — the sky, the land — "Khadgar! What's wrong?"

He started, as if waking up, but the horrible scene before him did not dissipate. He shook his head and forced a wan smile. "Nothing," he lied. Then, realizing how transparent that falsehood was, he corrected him­self. "I have had… visions of this place before. I hadn't expected — I didn't think I would have to face them so soon. I — it overwhelmed me for a second. My apologies."

Alleria frowned up at him, concerned, but saw that he was not going to explain further. "It is—" She closed her mouth, unable to find the words. She put a hand to her heart as if it physically hurt, and for a moment Khadgar roused from his own despair to pity her. She was an elf, a child of forests and trees and growing, healthy lands. She looked stunned, sickened — almost as sick as Khadgar felt. Out of nowhere, a wind kicked up. With no plants to anchor the soil, the greedy blast seized the dead, dusty soil and scoured them with it. They all coughed, and reached for something, anything, to cover mouths and noses and eyes.

This was it. Khadgar suddenly realized that in step­ping through the portal, he had stepped forward into a destiny he had hoped would be a long time coming. In the vision, he looked as he had now — an old man. And now he was here. Damn it, I'm just twenty-two… . Am I going to die here? he thought sickly, trying to recover. I've hardly even lived —

The wind died down as quickly as it had come. "Ugly place," Danath Trollbane said, coughing as he drew up alongside them. Khadgar latched onto the steady warrior's matter-of-fact demeanor for support. 'And is it me or do the Blasted Lands look a lot like this, as well?"

Khadgar nodded. It was good to have something else to focus on. "Their, uh — this world was leaking into ours through the rift. And whatever caused this damage — I suspect it was their warlocks and the dark magic they wield — began affecting ours as well." He forced himself to analyze their surroundings with a dis­passionate eye. It was not just dead, it looked like this world had been sucked dry. What had the orcs done to this place?

"We managed to halt the process on Azeroth, thank the Light. But clearly the land here has suffered the same injury, only for much longer. I suspect this world was far more benign once."

Alleria frowned. "The road… it—" She went sud­denly pale, then her lovely face contorted in anger. "Those… monsters . . ."

Turalyon had cantered up beside her. "What is it?"

"The road . . ." Alleria seemed unable to find the words. She tried again. "It's… it's paved with bones."

They all fell silent. Surely Alleria was mistaken. The road she indicated was no small path. It was a road proper, meant for dozens to ride abreast. For huge en­gines of war to traverse. It was wider than the bridge over the water that led into Stormwind, and so long that it trailed out of sight.

For it to be paved with bones would mean that hun­dreds… no, no… thousands of bodies had —

"Merciful Light," a young man whispered. He'd gone starkly white, and murmurs rose behind him. Even as the troops registered this horrific information, the enemy showed itself. Only a few orcs had been near the Dark Portal when they'd passed through. Khadgar had hoped they'd be the only ones they'd fight upon entering the orcs' world, but those few had had time to summon reinforcements. Along a ridge beyond the road of the dead, Khadgar could now see dozens of orcs, their weapons glinting in the harsh red light.

For the first time since this whole nightmare with the rift had started, Khadgar thought the soldiers might falter.

"It's a small army," he said softly. Orcs had been in his vision as well, orcs standing on a ridge, bellowing and snarling and cursing.

"We have an army of our own," Alleria said, looking at Turalyon.

"We do," Turalyon replied, emotion making his voice crack. He too had been shaken by their first sight of this world, but now he wore a look of passionate re­solve. “An army that will stand between the orcs and those they would harm. That will not stand by and watch its own world suffer, as this poor place has." He looked back at his troops.

"Sons of Lothar," he shouted. "This is the fight we were made for! More than ever before, we fight for our world now! We will not permit them to do to us or others what they have done here!" His voice carried, clear and pure and strong, as bright and shining as the hammer he now lifted. "For Stormwind! For Lordaeron, and Ironforge, and Gnomeregan. For Azeroth!"

So be it, Khadgar thought, and followed his general into the fray.