Beyond the Dark Portal

by Aaron Rosenberg

Even Gorefiend doubted he could move against the human, such was the power in that single word. Who was this man? Gorefiend watched, curious and not a little concerned, as the human entered the ring of firelight. He would be handsome among his people, Gorefiend thought; tall and well-built for a human, with lustrous black hair and strong yet elegant features. Fine clothing draped his frame and an untouched jeweled sword hung at his side. He grimaced slightly and brushed something from his sleeve.

  “I know you’d like nothing better than to attack me again, but you’ve sullied my clothing enough for one night. I don’t fancy getting your blood on it.” He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile that revealed perfect teeth. “I’m not quite what I seem, you see.” His shadow flickered behind him, then suddenly seemed to rise up, growing monstrous in size and shape, great shadow-wings spreading all around them.

  “Who are you?” Gorefiend demanded.

  “I’ve been known by many names.” The grin widened. “One of them…is Deathwing.”

  Deathwing! Gorefiend’s mind reeled. He didn’t question the statement, bizarre as it sounded; he’d already felt the faintest hint of Deathwing’s power. Gorefiend had heard of the mighty black dragon, perhaps the single most powerful creature on Azeroth. They had seen black dragons a few times during the war, and Gorefiend had always wondered why the Dragonmaw clan hadn’t captured them instead of the reluctant red dragons. He had suspected they were either too difficult a target or that doing so would awaken Deathwing’s wrath.

  Gorefiend tried to speak, but could not, so stunned and horrified was he. He tried again. “Wh-what do you want with us?”

  Deathwing waved a beringed hand airily. “Calm yourself,” he replied, slightly contemptuously. “I have not come to slay you, else you would be mere ash already.” His eyes glowed from within for an instant, hinting at the vast fires that lurked beneath that human façade. “Quite the contrary. I have been watching you, and I like what I see.” He spread a kerchief on a nearby rock, then settled himself beside the fire and motioned for them to do the same. They obeyed, slowly. “You have great strength and impressive focus.” He grinned at them. “I would very much like to behold the world that gave rise to such a fierce and determined people.”

  Gorefiend studied their uninvited guest. Was Deathwing asking to visit Draenor? Why?

  As if reading his mind, Deathwing turned to meet Gorefiend’s gaze, and nodded. His dark eyes were hooded, the power within banked, and for the moment he seemed merely a self-assured human. “I know of your meeting with the one called Rend Blackhand,” Deathwing said softly. “Idiots, he and his brother both. But not without their own power. And I know you desired the red dragons the Dragonmaw clan has…enslaved.” The corners of his mouth turned up at that last word, as if the very idea delighted him. “Substandard beasts, in my opinion. I don’t know why you’re bothering with them.”

  Gorefiend wasn’t sure how to respond. “Dragons are powerful beings,” he began cautiously.

  “Indeed we are. You wish for allies? Then I have an offer for you. My mighty children shall lend you their aid, and willingly rather than under duress.”

  One of the orcs, obviously anxious to please the unexpected guest, hesitantly offered Deathwing a mug of ale. The great creature frowned terribly, glaring at the orc. “Take that putrid stuff away!” Cowed, the orc retreated. Deathwing composed himself, turning his banked-fire eyes to Gorefiend. “Where was I? Oh yes. I will lend you the aid of my children. In return, I demand safe passage through the Dark Portal, and aid in transporting some cargo through there as well.”

  “You want to go to Draenor?” Tagar burst out. “Why?”

  The smile Deathwing turned upon the Bonechewer chieftain froze any further interruptions in the orc’s throat. “My plans are my own, orc,” the dragon-man said quietly, his voice almost a hiss. “But don’t worry. It will not hinder your own plotting.”

  Gorefiend considered the offer. He needed dragons, whatever their color, for their plan to work. If he accepted the bargain, he would not need to deal with Rend again after all, though he might pound some humility into the self-styled warchief later if he had the chance. He didn’t know what Deathwing was up to, but as long as it didn’t interrupt their own plans he didn’t see a problem with granting the dragon’s request.

  “Very well, Deathwing,” he said finally.

  “Lord Deathwing.” He smiled without humor, and there was an edge to his voice. “Let’s observe the proprieties, shall we?”

  Gorefiend inclined his head. “Of course, Lord Deathwing. I agree. We will give your—people and cargo safe passage. But first I have a mission to accomplish in the north. I need to retrieve some cargo of my own.”

  “Very well,” Deathwing agreed. He rose gracefully to his feet. “I will speak to my children and inform them of this bargain. When I return, I shall help expedite this task of yours.” He dusted his hands off, although he had touched nothing, and without another word he strode into the shadows.

  “Right,” Gorefiend said after a moment, when he was sure the dragon was gone and not about to leap out at them from the darkness. “Let’s pack up. We need to get moving, and we don’t have much time.” The others hastened to obey, all of them clearly happy to focus their attention upon breaking camp rather than on the strange figure who had just allied himself with them. Gorefiend just hoped Deathwing really was an ally—if he proved otherwise, there was nothing they could do to stop him.

  Two figures, male and female, turned at Deathwing’s approach as they waited, not far from the orc’s encampment. The man was powerfully made and wore a short dark beard and neat mustache, while the woman was petite and had pale skin and long flowing straight hair. Both had glossy black hair and features similar to those Deathwing sported in his human guise.

  “What news, Father?” the woman asked, her voice like silk over iron.

  “They have agreed, as I knew they would, Onyxia,” Deathwing replied. He stroked his daughter’s cheek and she leaned her face into his hand, smiling up at him. “Soon we shall have two worlds at our disposal instead of one.” He kissed her pale brow, then turned to her brother. “But I have another task for you while I am gone.”

  “Name it, Father,” the man replied, “and it shall be done.”

  Deathwing smiled. “There are still orcs within Blackrock Spire. They have severed ties with their kin, and refuse to rejoin the Horde. That leaves them ripe for the plucking.” His smile widened as he reached out to clasp his son by the shoulder. “When I return, Nefarian, I want this Rend Blackhand. You two will take control of the mountain and the orcs living in it. They will become our servants.”

  Nefarian grinned, his expression a mirror of his father’s. “Little could be easier. We’ll have the orcs and their mountain fortress waiting for you,” he promised.

  “Excellent.” Deathwing regarded his children for a moment, then nodded. “Now I must return to our new allies, and aid them in their little tasks, that they may the more quickly turn to mine.”

  As their father returned the way he had come, Onyxia bared her teeth in a feral smile. “Well, brother, shall we go see to our new home and our new subjects?”

  “Indeed we shall, sister,” Nefarian replied with a laugh. “Good sport ahead, I think.” He offered his arm, which she accepted, curling delicate, pale fingers around his powerful bicep, and together they vanished into the shadows.

  A heartbeat later, the sound of great wings flapping overhead blended into the evening breeze.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Faster! Faster, damn you!”

  Danath lashed the reins against his steed’s neck. His horse whickered in protest, its mouth flecked with foam, but obeyed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Danath bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. They’d been right, of course. Someone had to warn Nethergarde, and he had the authority and familial connections to make himself heard. His experience and leadership skills, too, could not afford to be lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Danath Trollbane, isn’t it?” the mage asked. “I thought you were with Turalyon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The orcs arrived an hour later.

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

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

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

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

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

  Khadgar smiled. “I expect we’re about to find out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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