Beyond the Dark Portal

by Aaron Rosenberg

  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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Whispers.

  Soft susurrations, barely heard unless listened for. The flutter of a bird’s wings in flight, the sound of a leaf drifting toward the earth…these were louder than the whispers that teased at Ner’zhul’s ears.

  But he heard them.

  He held the skull in his hands, gazing deeply into empty eye sockets, and heard Gul’dan’s voice. It sounded to him as it had in life—sycophantic, anxious for approval, eagerly answering questions and offering solutions; and yet simultaneously barely hiding a vast contempt and lust for power.

  Gul’dan, in death, hoped to lull his former master into the same false sense of security he had when he lived. But Ner’zhul would not be duped a second time. Inadvertently Ner’zhul had betrayed his people with his gullibility, and this orc whose skull rested in his gnarled hands had risen to power by thinking he had ground the old shaman into the dirt.

  “Who is alive and in power, and who is dead, eh, my apprentice?” he whispered to the skull.

  He blinked suddenly, startled out of his conversation with the skull as light flooded his traveling tent. A figure stood silhouetted against the daylight that knifed through the gloom of the tent’s interior.

  “We control the portal!” Grom Hellscream announced.

  Ner’zhul smiled. Thus far all had gone according to plan. He absently caressed the yellowed bone as he might a pet fawning for his attention. Fitting and just, that Gul’dan’s skull should help him reopen the rift.

  Ner’zhul waved Grom and his companion, Teron Gorefiend, inside. He had appointed them his seconds, Gorefiend overseeing the death knights and ogres and Grom conveying his orders to the various clans. And there were many clans now. The Thunderlord, Laughing Skull, and Bonechewer clans had joined them, leaving only the Redwalker clan—what was left of it. All the other clans had united under his leadership once more, making the Horde nearly as strong as it had been before the first attack on Azeroth. Nearly.

  “I am well pleased,” he said. “And now—you know what you must do next.”

  “Oh, I know what to do,” Gorefiend assured the old shaman. “But are you sure you can maintain the rift by yourself?” Even with the skull’s aid and suggestions—not that all of those had proven valuable or even reasonable—it had taken several death knights working in tandem to help Ner’zhul sufficiently widen the rift.

  Arrogance! He should not speak so to you, came the soft whisper from the relic.

  No. He should not.

  “I can manage,” Ner’zhul replied shortly, feeling the power coiled within him, more power than he had felt in years. It was as if tapping into the skull’s energies had awakened something deep within him, something he had never even realized he had been missing. And it felt…good. “Once the framework is rebuilt there, the portal will maintain itself. Be off about your duties, Teron.”

  From within the darkness of his hood, the death knight’s eyes flickered slightly. Then he nodded curtly and turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he slipped out of the tent.

  Ner’zhul turned to Grom, who nodded. “I am ready, Ner’zhul. More than ready.”

  “Very well—the sooner you begin, the sooner we can achieve our goals.” Grom raised his axe in salute, then followed Gorefiend. Ner’zhul lingered for a moment in the darkness, then emerged from the tent just in time to see orc and death knight stride up to the portal and step through it into that other world, a place he had never
set foot upon himself.

  He stared at the rift, his fingers idly stroking the smooth surface of Gul’dan’s skull.

  And now, you will never need to see this Azeroth. Soon, a greater glory will be yours! came the skull’s eager, dead voice.

  Yes, mused Ner’zhul, very soon.

  “What news?” Teron Gorefiend demanded of Gaz Soulripper as his booted feet strode on Azerothian soil. The other death knight had led a handful of their brethren through the rift once it had opened, and was now in charge of the work on this side of the portal. While the orcs provided the labor that would rebuild the portal from the rubble that was strewn about the area, it was the death knights who would make that portal more than a physical gateway. With their dark magics, they would be able to widen and stabilize the rift so that it would be of better use to the Horde.

  “They died almost too easily,” Soulripper replied, laughing. “With the darkness they never stood a chance.” He gestured behind him, to where Gorefiend’s altered senses could pick out the framework despite the magical shadows filling the valley. “We’re progressing well on the framework. It should be up within the next day or two.”

  Gorefiend grunted, studying the work. A simple stone archway at the top of a short ramp had held the original Dark Portal. When the portal had collapsed, the archway had fallen as well. The orcs they had pressed into service for this task had already cleared all those remains out of the way and were busy assembling the stone blocks they had lugged through from Draenor. This framework would be more functional than decorative, with only a few orcish runes hastily carved on it, but as long as they could utilize the framework to stabilize the portal he didn’t care.

  “What of the other clans still on this world?” he asked.

  “We spoke to them through dreams and visions once we’d secured the valley,” Soulripper replied. “No idea how long it will take for any of them to reach us, though.”

  As it turned out, it was mere hours later that Gorefiend heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He rose from the boulder he had been leaning against, noticing that the portal was already nearing completion, and paused. The unnatural darkness still held—it would prevent the humans from mounting a counterattack too quickly, and would keep them guessing—but it did not much slow down either orcs or death knights, and the footsteps drew steadily closer.

  At last a band of orcs marched into view. They were battered and worn, barely three dozen, but they held their heads high and their weapons ready. Before them strode an older orc, his body still powerful despite advanced years, his head turning constantly. As they drew closer, Gorefiend recognized him and realized why he moved his head so—the orc had only one eye. The other was a mass of scar tissue, and Gorefiend remembered the many rumors of how Kilrogg Deadeye had lost that orb—and what he had gained in return.

  Gorefiend moved forward to meet the Bleeding Hollow chieftain. “Kilrogg,” he called out as he approached. It was not a good idea to approach Kilrogg without warning.

  The chieftain’s head swiveled about until his one eye was locked on Gorefiend. “Gorefiend,” he called in return, stepping up and gesturing for his warriors to spread themselves out behind him. “I had a vision you were here.”

  The death knight nodded. He watched Kilrogg’s gaze track past him to the almost completed Dark Portal.

  “So it is true,” the chieftain said softly. “The portal has been restored!”

  “It is true,” Gorefiend replied. “We came from Draenor. And you can return there.”

  “Has the land been restored to life?”

  “Draenor is still dying,” Gorefiend acknowledged, “but Ner’zhul has a plan.”

  That only made Kilrogg’s scowl deepen, however. “Ner’zhul? That old fool? What is his involvement here? I saw him too in my vision, but thought that merely an image from the past.”

  “An image of our future, more like,” Gorefiend responded. “Ner’zhul has taken control again, and has re-forged the Horde. He has united all the remaining clans on Draenor”—he conveniently ignored the Redwalker clan, which was barely alive now anyway—“and reopened the rift. And he has a plan that will ensure the survival of our people, if not our world.”

  Kilrogg scratched the scar tissue beneath his missing eye. “He has done all this? This plan—you think it sound?”

  Gorefiend nodded.

  “Hmm. Perhaps he’s finally shaken off the weakness and doubt Gul’dan inflicted upon him, then. If he is anything like the Ner’zhul of old, I would gladly follow him.” He shook his head and lowered his voice. “And, in truth, I would happily forsake this world for our own, even in its current state. We have been trapped here too long.”

  Gorefiend nodded. “Go then,” he urged the Bleeding Hollow chieftain. “Ner’zhul and the others await you beyond the portal, and I know your experience and wisdom would be of great value to them. But first tell me, what of the other orcs still here?”

  “Aside from the Frostwolves, who will have nothing to do with the rest of us, there are only two other clans not in captivity,” Kilrogg said. “The Dragonmaw and the Blackrock.” He grimaced. “The Dragonmaw remain hidden in the mountains somewhere, safe from human eyes, and they still control the red dragons. They formed an alliance with the Blackrock a year ago. Rend and Maim Blackhand lead the Blackrock, and have claimed Blackrock Spire as their own.” He shrugged. “I’d not want the site of Doomhammer’s defeat as my base, but then the brothers never cared for him.”

  This was not good news. “Will they return to the portal, and to Draenor, do you think?” Gorefiend asked.

  Kilrogg shook his head. “Nay, they seem content to remain on Azeroth,” he replied. “I’d not expect them.”

  Gorefiend scowled but nodded. “My thanks, Kilrogg. Now go—Draenor awaits.”

  Kilrogg nodded and turned away, leading his warriors up the ramp to the restored portal, which shimmered even in the darkness. “Onward to Draenor!” he bellowed, pointing, and the first warrior strode through the portal without hesitation, followed by the rest. Kilrogg himself went last, then he glanced back at the valley and at Azeroth. He lifted his weapon.

  “A warrior retreats…but only to regroup. I will return,” he vowed. “This world and its people will know my wrath.” Then he too stepped through, and was gone.

  Grom Hellscream watched the Bleeding Hollow warriors vanish through the portal. He was pleased to see that Kilrogg still survived—the older chieftain had always been one of the canniest of the Horde leaders, and one of their finest tacticians. He was sure Kilrogg’s expertise would prove valuable very soon.

  Turning back to the orc who had just approached, Grom nodded for the warrior to continue.

  “The humans have not been idle. A large fortress stands to the north,” the scout reported. “It guards the pass out of this area. There is no other way past.”

  Grom grinned. “Perfect,” he said slowly. “That’s our target. We take the fortress and we can hold this valley indefinitely, no matter what this human Alliance throws against us.” He nodded to the scout. “Tell the others to prepare. We will march at once.”

  The scout nodded, but before he could move away Grom held up a hand for silence. He paused, listening closely. It sounded like footsteps, but faster, harder, and with a strange echo. More like a beast than a man, but if so it was a heavy beast, with solid hooves rather than soft paws. He had heard about the humans and their strange steeds—“horses,” they were called—and guessed that was what he was hearing.

  “Humans approach!” he shouted immediately, raising Gorehowl and whipping it around overhead. “Dispel the darkness!”

  He didn’t know where the death knights were, or even which ones had been maintaining the unnatural shadows that covered the valley, but they heard him. The darkness began to fade, light seeping through a wisp at a time, color washing across the valley even as the dark ebbed away, until at last he could see the place clearly. There stood the Dark Portal, fully restored. Up to the north
he spotted stone towers—the fortress his scout had mentioned. But now, through the narrow pass from that direction came a force of men, astride beasts with gleaming hides and long flowing manes and tails. At the front of the wave of warriors was a man who wore metal across his chest, dark blue but with a pattern like twinned flames outlined in gold. He waved a sword overhead, driving his horse forward without pause. This, then, was their leader.

  Grom grinned and raised Gorehowl again. With the darkness gone its blade shone silver in the daylight. He swung it in a slow arc, his grin widening as the weapon sang its war song of approaching death. Several of the humans faltered.

  “For the Horde!” he shouted, and charged forward. His warriors were right behind him.

  The humans hesitated, thrown off by the strange darkness they’d just seen slip away, surprised to find a mass of orcs now charging toward them, and terrified by the shrieks and howls arising not just from the approaching green-skinned warriors but from their very weapons. And for the first rank of humans, that hesitation proved deadly.

  Grom struck first, Gorehowl slicing the leading rider from shoulder to opposite hip. The top half of the corpse slid from the horse even as the bottom half toppled the other way. Grom never saw it fall; he was already on to the next targets, spinning to remove the legs of two more warriors as he stepped between them.

  The orcs strode between the beasts, slicing into steed and rider alike, sending some horses careening back into and even over many of the Alliance foot soldiers. The force that had marched into the valley was sizeable but nothing to compare with the clans Grom had brought with him, and the orcs had surprise and focus on their side.