Tides of Darkness

CHAPTER TWENTY

"Turalyon!"

Turalyon glanced up at the shout, unable to believe his ears. But there, riding toward him, was a large man in full armor. The lion symbol of Stormwind glittered gold on his battered shield, and the hilt of a massive sword rose above one shoulder.

"Lord Lothar?" Amazed, Turalyon rose from his seat by a campfire and stood staring as the Champion of Stormwind and Commander of the Alliance reined in his horse. Then the older man had dismounted and was clapping him on the back.

"Good to see you, lad!" He could hear the genuine affection in Lothar's voice. "They said I'd find you here!"

"They?" Turalyon glanced around, still confused by his leader's sudden appearance.

"The elves," Lothar explained, pulling off his helm and running a hand over his balding pate. He looked tired but pleased. "I ran across Alleria and Theron and the others as I was turning north. They told me what had happened in Capital City and that you had brought the rest of the army this way, pursuing what's left of the Horde." He clasped him about the shoulders. "Good job, man!"

"I had a lot of help," Turalyon protested, pleased but discomfited by his hero's praise. "And, truth to tell, I'm not entirely sure what happened." He and Lothar sat down again, the older man gratefully accepting some food and a wineskin from Khadgar, and Turalyon explained. He had been as surprised as anyone when the bulk of the Horde forces had turned away from Capital City and marched rapidly south. Then he had received a report from Proudmoore about the naval battle and its outcome. "The rest of the Horde wasn't strong enough to stand against us, especially with King Terenas pounding them every time they approached the city's walls," he concluded, "and their leader must have known it. So he retreated. We've been chasing them ever since."

"He may have been waiting for those orcs to return from the sea," Lothar commented, gnawing on a hunk of cheese. "When they didn't he must have known he was in trouble." He grinned. "Besides, closing the mountains behind him meant no escape route, and no reinforcements from there either."

Turalyon nodded. "You heard about Perenolde, then?"

"Aye." Lothar's expression turned grim. "How a man could turn against his own race I'll never understand. But thanks to Trollbane we don't have to worry about Alterac any more."

"And the Hinterlands?" Khadgar asked.

"Orc—free," Lothar replied. "Took us a while to find all of them—some had burrowed in deep, even carved out homes beneath the ground, where they could disappear when we chased them—but we got them at last. The Wildhammers are still patrolling to make sure, of course."

"And the elves are heading back to Quel'Thalas to clear it as well," Turalyon added. "The orcs seem to have left the forest but the trolls may still be hiding among the trees." He grinned as he thought about Alleria and her kin and their attitude toward the forest trolls. "I would not want to be them when they and the rangers meet again." He glanced around. "But where are Uther and the other Paladins?"

"I sent them up to Lordaeron," Lothar answered, draining the wineskin and tossing it aside. "They'll make sure that region's safe again, and then they'll follow after us." He smiled a little. "Uther may be upset if we don't leave him anyone to fight."

Turalyon nodded, imagining how his zealous fellow Paladin would react to discovering he had missed the end of the war. And though the orcs were still numerous it felt as if the war was winding down. He had thought they were all finished there by Capital City, but when the bulk of the Horde had left it had changed everything. And the Horde had been growing smaller and more desperate ever since.

"They may try to hole up here in Khaz Modan," Khadgar was saying, but Turalyon shook his head. He was pleased to see Lothar doing the same. "They'll have the dwarves to reckon with if they do," the Champion explained. "Ironforge still stands unconquered, and the dwarves will be twitching for a chance to take the fight back to the orcs and reclaim their mountains for good."

"We should give it to them," Turalyon commented, pausing as both Lothar and Khadgar turned to give him their full attention. "We can detour to Ironforge if the orcs aren't going there themselves, and use the gryphon riders to keep tabs on the Horde's path. If we free the dwarves, they can hold the mountains, preventing any chance of the orcs returning this way. They'll also hunt down any orcs still hiding among the peaks."

Lothar nodded. "It's a good plan," he said with a smile. "Let the troops know, and we'll begin our march in the morning." He stood and straightened slowly. "For me, I need sleep," he explained, sounding a little annoyed at himself. "It was a long ride, and I'm not as young as I was." But he favored Turalyon with a serious glance before turning away. "You've handled yourself and the troops well was I was gone," he said. "As I knew you would." Lothar paused, and a look of mixed sorrow and respect crossed his face. "Llane," he said softly. "You remind me of him. You have his courage." Turalyon stared, unable to respond.

Khadgar stepped up beside Turalyon as the older warrior walked away. "Looks like you've won his respect after all," the mage teased him. He knew how much Turalyon valued the Champion's good opinion, and how he'd worried that he would fail the Alliance commander.

"Shut up," Turalyon said absently, shoving Khadgar lightly. But he was smiling as he arranged his own bedroll, collapsed upon it, and closed his eyes, trying to get a little rest before they moved out again.

"Attack!" Lothar shouted. He had his greatsword out, its golden runes catching the sunlight as they charged up the wide path curving around the snow—topped mountain peak. Near the top of the peak the rock had been planed and polished and carved into a massive wall, complete with windows that pierced the stone far above. Set into that wall atop a short flight of stairs were a pair of truly gargantuan doors, easily fifty feet high, the image of a mighty dwarven warrior chiseled into their face. Above the doors soared a majestic arch, and within it was engraved the image of a heavy anvil. It was an awe—inspiring sight, the entrance to Ironforge.

The heavy doors were closed fast, of course, and no other entrances or openings were visible. Which did not stop the orcs from pounding against both that portal and the rocks around it, trying in vain to batter down the dwarves' ancient defenses.

It was these orcs Lothar and his soldiers targeted now as they reached the top of the path and emerged onto the wide snowy ledge facing those colossal doors. The orcs spun around, surprised—they had been so busy with their own attack that between that and the winds that whipped past the peak they had not heard the Alliance 's approach. Now they tried desperately to bring weapons to bear against this new enemy, but the first row of orcs were mowed down before they could even turn around to face their attackers.

"Do not let up!" Lothar shouted, his sword lopping off one orc's arm and then splitting another up the middle. "Drive them back against the rocks!" His men raised their shields accordingly and advanced steadily, using swords and spears to strike at any orcs that tried to breach their line and otherwise content to move them bodily back against the very edifice they had been trying to breach.

But, as Lothar had hoped, the dwarves were well prepared. The mammoth black doors swung open with only a faint sigh and short, sturdy fighters in heavy mail poured through the opening, hammers and axes and pistols at the ready. They fell upon the orcs from the rear, and between them and the humans the orcs were quickly cut down.

"Our thanks," one of the dwarves proclaimed, singling Lothar out. "I am Muradin Bronzebeard, brother to King Magni, and the dwarves of Ironforge are in your debt." His thick beard's hue matched his name, and his axe was notched from many battles.

"Anduin Lothar, Commander of the Alliance," Lothar introduced himself, offering his hand. Muradin's grasp was as strong as he'd expected. "We are happy to help. Our goal is to rid all our lands of the Horde and their influence."

"Aye, as it should be," Muradin agreed, nodding. He frowned. " Alliance? It was you who sent missives to us months ago, from Lordaeron?"

"Indeed." Lothar realized King Terenas must have sent messengers here as well as Quel'Thalas. The king of Lordaeron had apparently left no potential ally untouched. "We have banded together for this common cause."

"And whither are ye bound now?" a second dwarf asked, stepping close enough to join the conversation. His face was less lined than Muradin's but he had similar features and a matching beard.

"My brother Brann," Muradin explained.

"We are following the remainder of the Horde," Lothar answered. "Many of them have already fallen to us, both on land and by sea, and we now seek to vanquish the rest and end this war."

The brothers looked at each and nodded. "We'll be accompanying ye," Muradin announced. "Many of our kin will be after combing these mountains, reclaiming our ancestral strongholds and making sure no orcs remain within Khaz Modan." He grinned. "But we'll bring some lads and join your Alliance to make sure these orcs dinna trouble any of us again."

"We welcome your help," Lothar said honestly. He had met dwarves once or twice before, back in Stormwind, and had always been impressed by their strength and endurance. And if these Bronzebeard dwarves were as good in combat as their Wildhammer cousins, a contingent of them would be valuable indeed.

"Good. We'll be sending someone to inform our brother, and to catch up to us with supplies." Muradin shouldered his axe and glanced around. "Which way did the Horde go?"

Lothar glanced at Khadgar, who grinned. Then he shrugged, smiled, and pointed south.

"They be heading to Blackrock Spire," Kurdran announced, hopping down from his gryphon near where Lothar and his lieutenants sat in a ring around a small campfire. He and the other Wildhammers with them had been scouting and had just returned to report.

"Blackrock Spire? You're sure?" Muradin asked. Turalyon had noticed that the Wildhammers and the Bronzebeards did not get along well. No, that wasn't quite fair. They were like quarrelsome siblings, he thought—they liked each other but could not resist arguing and trying to show each other up.

"Of course I'm sure!" Kurdran snapped, and Sky'ree cawed a soft warning beside him. "I followed them, didn't I?" Then a sly look came over his face. "Or would you rather be seeing for yourself?" Muradin, and Brann beside him, blanched and stepped back a pace, drawing an evil chuckle from Kurdran. The Bronzebeards were as fond of flying as the Wildhammers were of going underground, which was not at all.

"Blackrock Spire," Lothar mused. "That's the fortress on the mountain summit?" The others nodded. "A strong position," he admitted. "Good vantage all around, solid fortifications, easy to defend from the surrounding mountains, probably easy to control the routes in and out." He shook his head. "Whoever their leader is, he knows what he's doing. This won't be easy."

"Aye, and it be cursed as well," Muradin added. "Well, it is," the dwarf continued when the others looked at him, though Turalyon noticed both Brann and Kurdran were nodding. "Our Dark Iron cousins" — he paused to spit as if their very name was distasteful—"built that fortress, but something far darker lives there now, beneath the surface." He and the other dwarves shuddered.

"If there were something else there, it didn't disturb the orcs," Lothar pointed out. "They'll fall back there, and getting past their defenses will be a problem."

"But we can do it," Turalyon surprised himself by saying. "We have the numbers and the skill to take them down."

Lothar smiled at him. "Yes, we can do it," he agreed. "It will be challenging, but anything worth doing usually is." He was about to say something else when they heard the unmistakable sound of plate mail creaking, and turned to see a man striding toward them. His armor was battered but still gleamed and on its breastplate was the same symbol Turalyon wore, the image of the Silver Hand. As the man drew closer to them, the light of the campfire shone off his flame—red hair and beard.

"Uther!" Lothar stood and offered his hand to the Paladin, who clasped it firmly.

"My lord," Uther answered. He clasped Turalyon's hand as well, and nodded to the others. "We came as soon as we could."

"Lordaeron is clean?" Khadgar asked as Uther lowered himself onto a rock beside them. He looked tired.

"It is," he replied, quiet pride shining in his storm—blue eyes. "My fellows and I have made sure of it. No orcs remain within that land, nor are there any in the mountains alongside." For a second Turalyon felt a strange pang, as if he should have been with the rest of his order. But he had been assigned a different task by Faol himself, and was doing his duty the same as Uther and the others.

"Excellent." Lothar smiled. "And you have arrived at a good time, Sir Uther. We have just learned the orcs' final position, and we will reach it within—?" He turned to the dwarven brothers next to him. They were the most accustomed to this region and would best know the distances involved.

"Five days," Brann replied after pondering a moment. "Provided they have left us no surprises along the way." He glanced at his brother and nodded. "And if ye're going to Blackrock, we'll be going with you. We'll not leave ye to face that lot alone."

"I dinna see any ambushes," Kurdran said, frowning as if the question were a slight to his scouting ability. "The entire Horde, such as it is, is moving in a solid mass back to the Spire." He glanced at Lothar, as if sensing the Champion's next question. "Aye, the Wildhammers will stay with ye as well. And altogether we outnumber them, though not by a large margin," he confirmed.

"I don't need a large margin," Lothar replied. "Just a fair fight." His face was stern. "Five days, then," he told the rest of them. "In five days we finish this."

To Turalyon the words had a ring of finality, even of doom. He just hoped the doom was not their own.