Beyond the Dark Portal

CHAPTER FIVE

“A what?" Turalyon, General of the Alliance forces, paladin of the Silver Hand, stared in utter baf­flement at the tiny figure who sat before him.

"A rat problem!" the gnome exclaimed.

"When you said there was an issue with wildlife that was threatening to derail the entire tram construction project," Turalyon said slowly, "I assumed you had run into difficulties with the subterranean lake, or perhaps the creatures in . . ." Turalyon's voice trailed off. "You did say 'rat'?"

"Indeed!" Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, head of the project to construct a mechanical transportation sys­tem that would eventually link Stormwind and Ironforge, shuddered.

"Horrible things, those vermin. Some bodies we've found were this big!" Mekkatorque spread his hands about six inches apart. Granted, on that tiny frame, that was a substantial amount, but still… the engineer had called an emergency session with the general of the Alliance over a rat problem?

Turalyon still wasn't quite sure what to think of the small beings who were good friends with the dwarves. If Mekkatorque, who had come to Stormwind a few years ago with the full endorsement of the dwarven king Magni Bronzebeard himself, was any indication, they were a curious bunch. Mekkatorque talked fast and used terms that Turalyon was utterly unfamiliar with, and struck him as a jovial fellow. The gnome rep­resentative didn't even reach Turalyon's hip when standing, and was all but swallowed by the large chair in which he was now ensconced. The table was level with his bright eyes, and at one point, Mekkatorque let out an exasperated huff and simply climbed atop it to point at the blueprints he had unfolded within two minutes of his arrival.

"They've completely infested the prototype, chew­ing through the wiring here, here, and here," Mekka­torque continued, stabbing a tiny finger down at the blueprints. "We can't extract it or even get in to repair it without losing more good people to those vile crea­tures. The last team we sent in after it… well, it wasn't a pretty sight." His large eyes looked solemn.

Turalyon nodded. The idea of a tram had struck him as brilliant when it was first proposed shortly after the Second War. Progress on rebuilding Stormwind was being made, but slowly — it was a long and danger­ous trek from Ironforge to Stormwind, and King Bronzebeard had chafed at the delay in getting supplies to his allies. Turalyon felt out of his depth at the time, and still had that reaction every time Mekkatorque came to him with updates or problems. He was a pal­adin, a warrior by fate and a priest by training. He knew little enough of simple construction, and this "tram" was quite beyond him. Especially when Mekka­torque talked so fast.

Turalyon had discovered that gnomes were fiercely if eccentrically intelligent, and he was willing to believe it if this… contraption that Mekkatorque proposed did even part of what he claimed it would do. He re­membered their first conversation.

"How safe will it be?" he had asked.

"Er… well, we are on the cutting edge technologi­cally with it, you must understand," Mekkatorque had said, running a hand along his muttonchop whiskers. "But I'm willing to bet it will eventually be as safe as the safest gnomish creation ever!"

Something in the sound of his voice had warned Tu­ralyon that that might not be particularly safe at all. But he wasn't a builder, or an engineer. Still, it was coming along.

Until this rat problem.

"I understand that rats are proportionately much larger, and therefore much more threatening to your people than to mine," Turalyon said as diplomatically as he could, although he wondered why Bronzebeard hadn't handled the problem on the Ironforge end. 'And we can't have them chewing through the wiring. I'll send some of my men back to Ironforge with you. They'll, er… hunt the vermin down and help you effect repairs."

Turalyon might have been Greatfather Winter him­self the way Mekkatorque reacted. "Thank you, thank you! This is excellent. It will be back on track in a jiffy. And then we can finally tackle that pesky underwater problem." The gnome slipped off the chair and reached up a small hand to Turalyon, then pumped it vigorously.

"Go speak to Aramil," Turalyon said, referring to a former guard at the keep who now served as Turalyon's assistant in all things nonmilitary. "He'll take care of the arrangements."

Turalyon watched the gnome depart, and turned back to his correspondence. Dozens of letters, from so many people, all wanting something from him. He ran a hand through his short blond hair and sighed. A walk would do him good.

The air was clean and clear as he stepped outside, al­though clouds lowered. He walked up to the canal, gazing briefly at his reflection in the now-cleared water. Turalyon had never been to Stormwind until the day he and his men had entered the city two years ago, and so he had not had the additional horror of knowing what the city had been like before it fell. It was horrific enough as it was. These famous canals had been clogged — with stones and lumber, with dirt… with defiled corpses. The dead had been respectfully buried, the rubble cleared. Now the canals ran freely again, connecting the various parts of the city. Turalyon lifted his gaze to the white stone, gray now in the dimming light, and the red roofs. The Dwarven District housed many of Bronzebeard's hardworking men, sent along with Mekkatorque, and nestled next to that area was the cathedral.

Thunder rumbled as he approached. He fixed his eyes on the glorious building, one of the first to be completed in its entirety The orcs had damaged it badly, but even then it was a place of safety — the enemy had not realized that the cathedral had vast rooms and catacombs beneath it. Dozens had huddled there, sheltered by its stone while terror raged above them. It was one of the few buildings large enough to house the refugees in the initial stages of reconstruc­tion, and even now, people flocked to it when they were ill, or injured, or even just in need of a little re­minder of the Light.

Like Turalyon.

'Oof!" He stumbled forward, so lost in thought that he hadn't seen the pair of children until they'd slammed into him.

"Sorry, mister!"' the boy cried. The girl gazed up at him with solemn brown eyes. Turalyon smiled and pat­ted her hair as he spoke to the boy.

"With an attack like that you'll make a fine soldier one day," he said.

"Oh yes, sir, I hope so, sir! You think all the orcs will be dead before I'm old enough to kill them?"

Turalyon's smile faltered. "I'm sure you'll be able to serve the Alliance well,"' he said, evading the question. Revenge. The fiery need and anger it kindled in the heart had cost Turalyon someone he loved. He would say nothing to foster racial hatred in a child. Keeping his hand on the girl's head, he murmured a soft prayer. Light glowed around his hand and for a brief moment, the child was enveloped in radiance. Turalyon lifted his other hand and blessed the boy as well. Awe shone in both pairs of eyes that regarded him.

"Light bless you both. Now, you two had best be getting home. Looks like rain."

The boy nodded and grabbed his sister's hand. "Thanks, Mister Paladin!" The two ran toward their home. It was not far; Turalyon realized they lived in the building adjacent to the cathedral. The orphanage.

So many orphans. So many lives lost.

Thunder rumbled again, and the heavens let loose. Rain began pouring down in sheets. Turalyon sighed, pulling his cape around himself and running lightly up the steps to the cathedral, getting soaked even in that short distance. The smell of incense and the soft, barely audible sound of chanting coming from somewhere in the building soothed him at once. He had become used to giving orders, to fighting battles, to emerging from them covered in his own blood or that of the orсs. It was good to come back to the church, and to remember his origins as a simple priest.

A soft smile curved his lips as he beheld his brethren, his fellow Knights of the Silver Hand, doing their duties here as surely as they had on the battle­field. Archbishop Alonsus Faol had created the order three years ago, and it was by his decree that the pal­adins now served humbly in the communities that had been so devastated by the war. Even as he looked around, Turalyon saw his old friend Uther, whom he himself had given the title "Lightbringer." Turalyon was used to seeing the powerfully built man in full armor, swinging his weapon, his ocean-colored eyes afire with zeal as the Light came to him in the form of powerful attacks. But Uther now was clad in simple robes. He was attending to a woman who looked ex­hausted and drained, gently wiping her forehead with a damp cloth and cradling something in his free hand.

As Turalyon drew closer, he saw that the bundle Uther held so gently was a newborn, its skin still mot­tled from birth. The new mother smiled tiredly but happily and reached for her child. Its lusty, healthy wail was the sharp, sweet song of hope. Uther rested his hand on the woman and blessed her and her child, as Turalyon had done with the orphans earlier. Turalyon realized that although Uther was obviously at home on the battlefield, using the Light to take the lives of those who would slay him and those he served, he was equally at home here in the cathedral, bringing a new little life into the world. Such was the dichotomy of paladins; they were warriors and healers both. Uther glanced up and smiled, rising to greet his friend.

"Turalyon," he said in his deep, gruff voice. The two paladins clasped hands. "Good to see you. About time you found your way down here." Uther cuffed the younger man playfully.

"You're right," Turalyon agreed, chuckling. "It's good to be here. It's too easy to get caught up in all the things that need to be done but can never quite be fin­ished. Like a rat problem."

"Eh?"

"I'll tell you later. For now, how can I help?" This was what mattered, he thought. Not staying holed up in the keep pushing paper.

Uther's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked over Turalyon's shoulder. "1 think you've got some of that un­finished business right here," he said.

"Oh?" Turalyon said casually, turning around.

It was like seeing a ghost, a moment wrenched out of its proper place in space and time and incongruously reenacted. She stood before him, face and hair and clothing wet, emerald eyes fixed with his eyes. She had gotten caught in the rain, looking almost as she had that night nearly two years ago, coming to him now as she had come to —

Alleria Windrunner's eyes narrowed, as if she, too, recalled that night, and found it an unpleasant memory. Turalyon felt a chill sweep over him that had nothing to do with his wet clothing.

She bowed, stiffly, first to Uther, then to him. "Lightbringer. General."

Ah. This was how it was to be played, then. "Ranger." He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. He had half-expected it to crack with emotion. "What brings you here?"

"Tidings," she said, "of the worst sort." Her eyes flickered to Turalyon's, then back to Uther's. "Little else would."

Turalyon felt a muscle twitch in his cheek and grit­ted his teeth. "Then pray deliver them."

The elf looked around, slightly contemptuously. "I wonder if I have not come to the wrong place for aid. I did not expect to find generals, knights, and holy war­riors tending to babies in a church."

Turalyon welcomed the anger; it chased away the heartsickness. "We serve where we are called, Alleria. All of us. I feel certain you didn't come all the way here just to insult us. Speak."

Alleria sighed. "A short time ago, I met with Khadgar and several of the Alliance leaders, including your own king. It seems that there is a dimensional rift where the Dark Portal once stood. Khadgar believes that very soon, orcs — perhaps an entire second Horde — could come through again. He sent me on gryphonback at once to inform you."

She had their attention now, and they listened in si­lence as she repeated what she had learned. Not for the first time since the Lion of Azeroth's death, Turalyon wished Anduin Lothar were here. He often found him­self wishing that when faced with a difficult decision, or impending combat, or simply the need to talk to someone. Lothar would have responded instantly, calmly but decisively, and others could not have helped but follow. While the veterans of the war had begun calling themselves the Sons of Lothar, Turalyon himself — Lothar's lieutenant — was not comfortable with the term. He did not feel like a son of the great man, although he would defend Lothar's ideals to his last breath. He was still thinking when Alleria finished talking and turned her eyes expectantly upon him.

'Well?" she demanded.

"What say the Wildhammers on all this? What does Kurdran think?"

"I doubt he knows," Alleria admitted, the blond ranger having the grace to at least be embarrassed by that statement.

"What? You flew all this way to inform me — on one of their gryphons, no less!—and no one told the Wildhammers' leader what was going on?"

She shrugged again, and Turalyon bit back a curse. During the Second War the Alliance had all fought to­gether, elves and humans and dwarves — both the Wildhammers and their Bronzebeard cousins — side by side. But in the past year it seemed the human rulers had been distancing themselves from their nonhuman al­lies. The elves still participated in the defense of Nethergarde, but that was as much from their fascination with all magic as from any desire to help humans. The Bronzebeard dwarves had an ambassador, Muradin Bronzebeard, at Lordaeron, and so they main­tained close ties with King Terenas. And there was cheerful little Mekkatorque and his assistants here in Stormwind. Turalyon felt the heat of shame rush through him at the recollection of his amusement at the gnome's expense earlier, when Mekkatorque and his people were performing an invaluable service to strangers.

But for all the Wildhammers' loyalty and bravery and skill, many humans seemed to think the gryphon riders little more than savages.

"Will you wait for the dwarves to give you instruc­tions? Or perhaps Lothar's ghost?"

Turalyon frowned. Color rose in Alleria's cheeks and she glanced down, realizing she had gone too far.

"The Wildhammers have been staunch allies," Tura­lyon said in a soft yet sure voice. "They are as much a part of the Alliance as anyone. I will see to it that they are informed as soon as possible."

"We must go immediately," Alleria said. "The gryphon will bear you to Lordaeron. I will make my own way there."

She wouldn't even deign to ride with him, then. Tu­ralyon didn't answer at once. He glanced at Uther, who was bridling on his behalf. Their eyes met for a mo­ment. The bigger man nodded and turned back to the young mother and her child.

"You will bring the members of your order, yes?" Alleria said, almost perfunctorily, as if she knew the an­swer already. When Turalyon shook his head, her jaw dropped. "What? Why not?"

"The Archbishop wishes them to stay here and in Lordaeron. To tend to the people who need them."

"You haven't even asked!"

"I know without asking. Don't worry. If the need is great enough, they will come. But need can take many forms. Come. Let us talk for a bit."

"We should—"

"Five minutes will change nothing." She frowned. He realized she was shivering. A drop of rain slid from her wet hair down her face, looking like a tear, but it was nothing nearly so soft. At that instant, he wanted to pull her into his arms so badly. This coldness, this acerbic venom that poisoned her words and turned her lovely face ugly with barred — he knew what it was. And he knew why she carried it.

And the knowing was like a knife in his heart.

"I wrote. You never answered," he said quietly.

She shrugged, pulling her cloak about her slim frame automatically, although what she needed was dry clothing. "I have been traveling. On patrol. Our most recent task was a patrol through the Alterac Mountains," Alleria said. "There were rumors of orcs hiding among the peaks there." She allowed herself a grim smile. "We found ten of them." Turalyon didn't have to ask what she and her rangers had done with the discovered orcs. He wondered if she'd started taking trophies. He'd seen her once crouching over a body, a savage grin on her face, and had been stunned by the glee she took in the killing.

"Alleria," he said quietly, "I've been writing you and you've never answered. You owe me nothing. I under­stand that. But if… what happened between us means you can no longer work with me, I need to know that now. I'm your commander. I — the Alliance — can't af­ford to find out on the battlefield that you're not listen­ing, or not obeying." He waited until she looked at him. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"There is no problem," the blond elf answered sharply. "The Alliance wants every orc dead. So do I. We can work together on that."

"That's all we are to you now — a means to an end. A way to kill more orcs more quickly"

"What else is there?" she answered. "Khadgar only found me because my band and I were hunting orc renegades in Alterac. I agreed to meet with him at Nethergarde because his messenger said it involved orcs, and I agreed to bring his summons to you for the same reason." She frowned. 'And the sooner we reach Lordaeron, the sooner I can seek out more of those green-skinned abominations and cleanse this land of their filth!" Her voice rose with passion and her eyes flashed. Some heads turned in their direction. "I will see them dead, every last one of them. Even if it takes me a hundred years!"

Turalyon felt a shiver run down his spine. "Alleria," he began, pitching his voice low, "you're talking geno­cide."

The smile that curved her lips was a cruel one. "It is only genocide when those being slain are people. This is nothing more than exterminating vermin."

He realized with a shock that she honestly believed her words. She really didn't see the orcs as sentient people. She saw them as abominations, as monsters, as… rats. Turalyon knew he had slain his fair share of them — had done so at times with great anger in his heart at what they had done to his people. But this… Alleria didn't want justice. She didn't want the orcs to pay for the crimes they had committed, she wanted to hurt them. To exterminate an entire race, if she could.

He took a step toward her, reaching out a hand, hoping to connect. "You've lost so much. I know that."

Alleria knocked his hand away. "Hah! A human speaks of loss? What do you know of it? Your lives are so brief you never learn what it means to truly love someone!"

Turalyon felt the blood drain from his face. For a moment he couldn't respond. She stared at him, breathing quickly, daring him to speak.

"Just because you live longer doesn't mean you feel more," he said. "Trust me on that one." He gave her a lopsided smile. Her face only hardened the more.

"So, you are better than me because you live for this long?" she challenged, snapping her fingers. "Or are you better than me because of your precious Light?"

'Alleria, I want to see justice done. You know that. But you're not talking justice, you're talking vengeance. And I see what it's doing to you. The Light isn't mine, it's everyone's. It's about healing. It's—"

"Don't you dare lecture me!" she warned, her voice dropping to a steely hiss. "Your Holy Light didn't stop the orcs from tearing open a way into our world, did it? The Light can't restore my ravaged homeland, or give me back my—"

She closed her jaw with a snap. Turalyon stared at her for a long moment, then sighed deeply.

"Ranger," he said formally, "here are my orders. For the moment, you will stay here in Stormwind, along with half of my troops and myself. Send for your rangers, have them gather here. The city has just started to get its feet underneath it. I won't leave it un­protected."

Her jaw tightened. "So we're just going to wait out the war here, sir, like cowards, sir?"

Turalyon did not rise to the bait. "I will request rein­forcements, and when they come, we'll leave. But until then, we stay here."

She nodded. "You'll protect a city when it's your own. I see now. Permission to leave to gather my rangers, sir?"

Alleria's words were designed to get under his skin, and they had. But Turalyon was more concerned about what had happened to Alleria — or more correctly, what she was doing to herself — to cause her to speak them. She had changed so very, very much. Sadly he recalled first their initial reactions to one another — he stam­mering, awestruck first by her grace and beauty and later by her consummate skill, and she amused, in­trigued, slightly supercilious. He had lost some of his awe — not all of it; he would never lose all of it, but some — and she had grown to respect him. To like him. To seek out his company, to want him by her side in battle and, he'd once believed, in a more intimate way.

But there seemed little of that woman left. And all he could do was be saddened and worried by the changes, and wonder if shed let her hate for the orcs get in the way of her judgment. By the Light — if she died because of this recklessness of hers —

He realized he was staring, and nodded. He did not trust himself to speak past the lump in his throat. Alleria inclined her head, the barest gesture of required re­spect, and strode past him.

Turalyon watched her go, wondering if he'd made the right decision. What would Lothar have done? Would he have waited until reinforcements came, or would he have charged into battle? Was he wasting time or being smart? Was it enough, to send his second-in-command Danath Trollbane and half his men to Nethergarde right now?

He shook his head, clearing it. He couldn't afford to second-guess right now, and his decision felt like the right one. He'd need to send some messengers. One to the Wildhammers, letting them know the situation. One to Lordaeron.

And one, he thought with a small, sad little smile, to Mekkatorque, to let him know that unfortunately, the men intended as ratcatchers for the tram would not be coming after all.

Alleria did not head back to the keep, as she had said she would. Instead, once she left the cathedral, she started to run, her feet swift and almost completely silent as they carried her along the streets toward the great gates of the city. She ignored startled glances as she ran, per­mitting the gawking stares to fuel her anger, and raced through the gates into the wooded area beyond. She ran until she found a small stream and there, beneath the boughs of the sheltering trees, she sank down on the sodden earth.

She was cold and soaked to the skin, but she ignored the discomfort.

It had gone worse than she had feared.

How was it that a mere human could rattle her so? He was a child beside her, a rude, loud child who — even as she thought the words, she knew that they were wrong. Turalyon was shockingly young com­pared with her, but he was reckoned a man among his own people, and he was kind and wise and smart.

And at one point, so long ago it seemed now, she had thought she loved him.

Alleria growled and put a clenched hand to her heart, as if warning it not to soften. Her fingers touched the wrought silver of a necklace that held three pre­cious stones. It had been given to her by her parents; it was a link with a world that had once been. A world of grace and beauty and balance. A world the orcs had for­ever crippled.

The trees here were not those of the forests of Eversong, those beautiful, golden-leafed patriarchs whose branches had held her and her sisters and — She squeezed her eyes shut, and whispered a name: "Lirath . . ."

Her youngest brother. She remembered him now the way he had looked the last time she had seen him. Beautiful, laughing, dancing beneath the golden leaves as a piper played a sprightly tune. Young, so young. He wanted to be a ranger, like his sisters, but in this mo­ment she had frozen forever in her mind, Alleria watched him simply enjoy being alive.

The orcs had slaughtered him, snuffing out his bright life like a flame pinched between a cruel thumb and forefinger.

Had slaughtered so many, too many other kin — cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces … had slaughtered friends she had known longer than Turalyon had been alive —

And they would pay. Her hand tightened on the necklace. They would suffer, as gentle young Lirath had. As her people, her city, her land had. They would taste a thousandfold the pain they had inflicted upon her. It would be sweet — sweet as the blood she had once tentatively licked from her hand after a kill. Turalyon had almost caught her that time. Now, she told herself, he must not know.

He must not stop her.

He must not soften her heart, as he had come per­ilously close to doing once before.

Whatever the cost, Alleria Windrunner would have her revenge.

Rain pounded down outside, but the stables were dry, if steamy. The scent of horses and leather filled the moist air. The beasts whickered, pawing at the haycovered cobblestones beneath their hooves as their riders sad­dled them. They were trained warhorses, and had not seen battle in some time. They seemed as anxious as Danath Trollbane was to depart.

Danath's men, though, were greener.

His own horse had been saddled and ready quickly, and now he moved among his soldiers. "Make haste," he glowered at one who was having trouble with the stirrups. "This is no pleasure outing!"

Turalyon had let him choose half among all the mil­itary left in Stormwind. He'd chosen cavalry units he knew would be able to cross the miles quickly and form ranks again soon after. They needed to move fast — but they had to be careful not to wear out the horses. He suspected they wouldn't have the luxury of a rest to reorganize and regroup. But most of the men he'd fought with were scattered now over the human territories, and there was no time to summon all the veterans home.

"We don't want to miss the fight, do we, sir?" a sol­dier said with a grin as he grasped his mount's reins. He was little more than a boy, really, too young to have fought in the Second War — one of the many who had joined after the War's end, to help fill out the ranks so badly decimated by the fighting.

Danath shook his bald head and ran a hand through his silvering beard, trying to recall the boys name. Farrol, that was it. "You've not faced orcs before, have you, Farrol?" he rumbled.

"No, sir!" Farrol replied with a wide grin that showed how young he really was. "But I'm looking forward to it, sir!"

"I'm not," Danath replied, making the soldier gasp and stare.

"You're not?" the boy asked, his voice faltering a lit­tle as he noted his commander's grim expression. "But why not, sir? We're going to trample them, aren't we? I heard that there weren't many orcs left anymore, and they're hiding in the woods and the mountains like wild animals!"

"The ones who got left behind when the portal closed, that's true," Danath agreed. "But that's not what we're dealing with here. They think the Dark Portal's going to reopen. Do you know what that means?" The soldier gulped, and Danath raised his voice to make sure the soldiers saddling their mounts around them could hear him as well. "It means we won't be facing a ragtag group of orc survivors, boy — we'll be facing the Horde, the largest fighting force ever seen. And that force has never been defeated, not in truth."

"But we won the war, sir!" one of the other men — Vann, Danath recalled — protested. "We conquered them!"

"That we did," he agreed. "But only because some of their own forces turned on them and we were able to crush them at sea. What we fought at Blackrock was only a portion of the true Horde, and even then it was a close thing." He shook his head. "For all we know, there could be as many as a dozen more clans back on the orcs' world, just waiting to break through again." He heard the muttering and gasping that swept through his men. "That's right, lads," he announced loudly. "We could well be heading toward our deaths here."

"Sir? Why are you telling us this?" Farrol asked quietly.

"Because I don't believe in lying about our chances," his commander answered. "You've a right to know what you'll be facing. And I don't want you going in thinking this'll be easy. Expect hard fighting, and stay sharp," he said, his tone shifting from advice to order. "Go in expecting trouble, and you're more likely to sur­vive." He grinned suddenly. 'And then you can call yourselves Sons of Lothar."

All around him men nodded, more sober now. These were good men, if not as seasoned as he might wish. He already regretted the deaths he knew would come if the portal did indeed reopen. But they were sworn to defend the Alliance, even at the cost of their own lives. He just hoped they wouldn't be dying for nothing. Even though precious time was ticking past, Danath permit­ted himself a few moments to look at them, to memo­rize faces, summon names to mind. He had no children of his own; while they were under his command, he was father to these boys. Even if they all were Sons of Lothar. The thought made him smile slightly.

"Mount up, lads!"

Two minutes later, they were galloping down the cobblestone streets of Stormwind and out the main gates.

"Listen, do you hear that?"

Randal laughed. "You're getting jumpy, Willam," he told his friend. "It's just the wind." He glanced around, looking across the blasted landscape, and shivered. "Nothing to block it out here."

Willam nodded but still seemed uneasy. "Maybe you're right," he admitted, rubbing his face with one gloved hand. "I hate this detail. Why've we got to guard this thing, anyway? Isn't that what the magi are for?"

Both soldiers glanced behind them. If they squinted they could make out a shimmer in the air, just beyond a pile of old rubble. The distortion was narrow, per­haps the width of a man but twice as tall. They had been told that rift was all that remained of the Dark Portal, and that their task was to keep watch over it.

"Dunno," Randal replied. "You'd think if anything did happen the magi'd know before we did." He shrugged. 'At least it's an easy job. And our shift's over in another hour."

Willam started to say something else, then stopped, his eyes wide. "There!" he whispered. "Hear that?"

"Hear wh—"

Willam shushed him frantically. They sat stone-still for a moment, ears straining. And then Randal heard it. It was like a low moan, then a high whistle, as if the wind were sweeping across a wide plain before cutting through the valley around them. His eyes went back to the rift — and he gasped, almost dropping his shield and spear. It was wider now!

"Sound the alarm!" he told Willam frantically, but his friend was frozen in fear, eyes riveted on the sight before them. "Willam, sound the alarm!"

As Willam hurried to obey, the rift shimmered again, growing brighter, colors leaking out along its ex­panding edges. It seemed to split open, like a mouth ravenous for food, and shadows billowed forth. They spread rapidly, and Randal blinked, unable to see the rift or the rubble below it anymore. Even Willam had vanished, though he could hear his friend blowing on the horn, alerting the other guards.

Randal swiveled this way and that, trying to peer through the sudden darkness, his spear and shield at the ready. Was there something there? Or there? He strained to listen.

Was that a sound? A thud, as if something had rolled over — or dropped? Was that another?

Yes, he was sure he'd heard something now. He turned in the direction he thought it had come from, raising his spear slightly and hoping it wasn't Willam. Those definitely sounded like footsteps, heavy ones — and many of them.

"Hold!" Randal shouted, wishing his voice weren't shaking. "Who goes there? Stand and identify yourself, in the name of the Alliance!"

The steps grew closer, and he spun, trying to pinpoint their source. Were they behind him? Off to his side? Right in front of him? He turned slightly as the ground shook beneath his feet, raising his shield instinctively —

— and cried out as something heavy crushed it like paper, the impact shattering his arm as well.

Blinking away the pain, Randal thrust his spear for­ward, but something caught the weapon's long haft and wrenched it from his grip. A face appeared out of the darkness, inches from his own — a wide, heavy face, with a looming brow, squat nose, and two sharp tusks jutting up from the lower lip.

The horrifying face leered at Randal, and he had a brief glimpse of something else rushing toward him from the shadows, something wide and flat and curved. …

The other guards rallied, alerted by Willam's horn, but it was too little too late. The darkness filled the valley, preventing them from even seeing their foes, and while the humans blundered about in confusion, orc warriors and death knights poured out of the newly expanded rift, crushing everyone in their path. It was more of a slaughter than a true battle. Within minutes every human defender was dead or dying, and the orcs con­trolled the Azeroth side of the Dark Portal.