Beyond the Dark Portal

by Aaron Rosenberg

  He stalked on, a part of him noting the landscape around him. Most of Draenor resembled Hellfire Peninsula, with its cracked red ground and bare stretches. Why, then, was this region still so green? Lush grass cushioned his steps, and clumps of bushes alternated with tall trees. Nagrand had clearly not been touched by the same desolation as the rest of their world, but why?

  It was ironic, in a way—the greenest, healthiest part of Draenor, and it was home to sick and weakened orcs. As he crested a low hill, Kargath saw the village spread out before him. Its tightly built walls, domed roofs, and plank porches were in the same style as most orc villages, including his own. For a second Kargath entertained the notion of bringing his warriors here, chasing out the current inhabitants, and claiming the village as their own. They could let the war pass them by—Ner’zhul did not expect to see any of them again, so he wouldn’t be surprised when they never appeared. They could let the Horde go on to other worlds and live out their days here instead, tending herds and crops and battling whatever beasts lived in the forests whenever they felt the old bloodlust rise.

  But no, Kargath scolded himself. He had sworn an oath to fight for the Horde. How could he live with himself—or look any of his warriors in the eye—if he did not give them his all? Besides, he thought with a shiver, claiming this village would mean facing its current residents, and he didn’t think any of his warriors were up for that.

  Walking down the hill, Kargath approached the village cautiously. He saw a few orcs moving around sluggishly, patches of brown against the green of their surroundings, but they hadn’t noticed him yet. When he was still a hundred feet or so from the nearest hut, Kargath slowed to a halt.

  “Geyah!” he shouted, breaking into a short spate of coughing as the deep breath exacerbated his injuries. “Greatmother Geyah!” The orcs he’d noticed earlier looked up, startled, then disappeared into the nearest huts. Hopefully they were summoning Geyah, Kargath thought bitterly. He doubted he had the strength for another shout right now.

  A moment later the curtains over a hut entrance rustled and then were pushed aside. Greatmother Geyah emerged and stomped toward him, squinting against the sunlight. “Who’s there?” she called out, her voice as sharp as ever.

  “Kargath Bladefist, chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan,” he replied, forcing himself to stand up straight as she approached.

  “Kargath, eh? I’ve not seen you for many a year,” Geyah commented. She finally stopped halfway between him and the huts and met his gaze. Her eyes were still violet, Kargath noted, and her long hair was still thick, if streaked with gray. She didn’t look ill. Impatient, though. And the curl of her lip—was that revulsion he saw there?

  “What do you want here?” she demanded, confirming his impression.

  “An Alliance army has invaded Draenor,” Kargath told her, his sense of urgency warring with the respectfulness his elders had drummed into him as a youth. “They’ve overthrown Hellfire Citadel and will be marching on the Black Temple soon.”

  “Eh? And what’s that to me?” Geyah asked, sniffing. “Monuments to war, the both of those places. We’re better off with them gone.”

  “I need warriors,” Kargath explained, hoping he sounded confident and demanding rather than desperate. “Any orc able to fight must come with me at once.”

  Geyah stared at him, her eyes wide. “Are you mad?” she burst out. “This is a village of the sick, or have you forgotten that?” She studied him, and a sly grin flickered across her lips. “No, I can see you haven’t—or would you rather we continued this discussion inside one of the huts?” When he shifted uneasily from foot to foot, her grin widened. “As I thought. You know who dwells here.” Her grin turned to a scowl. “And now you want to add to their suffering by dragging them into your foolish war? Why should they fight? Why should any of us?” She glared at him. “You invaded the humans’ world. This is the consequence.”

  Kargath felt his own lips pulling back in a snarl as his anger began to outweigh his fear. “We are all part of the Horde,” he reminded her sharply. “We are one race, and all must survive or fall together.” He studied her for a second, then switched to a different tack. “Ner’zhul says he can get us off this hellhole. If he can get to the Black Temple and hold off the Alliance long enough, he can open portals to other worlds. You could have an entire world to yourself, for you and your patients.”

  “What’s wrong with this world?” Geyah responded. She gestured at the greenery all around them. “I like it just fine.”

  “This world is dying.”

  “Only part of it,” she countered. “The part you and your fool warlocks have tainted. Nagrand is as vibrant as ever.” She looked smug. “It is mag’har—uncorrupted. And so are its people. They may be sick with the red pox, even dying from it. But at least their pocked skin is brown, and they have not been fouled by the Horde’s dark magics.”

  “It is your duty!” Kargath insisted. “All your warriors must come with me at once!”

  Geyah laughed at him then. “You want them?” she asked. “Get them yourself. Drag them out of their sickbeds and you can take them with you to your war.”

  Kargath glared at her, but his anger was up now and overwhelming all else, including his fear. “They don’t look that ill,” he said, staring past her to where many of the orcs she tended had emerged from the various huts to watch the exchange. From here he could see that some of them were limping and others were bent or bowed or hunched, but they all appeared to have the right number of limbs. And at this point as long as they could hold a club he’d take them.

  He started toward the village, just as one of the figures stepped away from its hut and approached them. It was a male, a young warrior, and as he neared, Kargath could see he was tall and muscular. He was also staggering, swaying on his feet, and his brown skin was pale except where angry red pustules marred it, many of them seeping a thin red fluid that looked more like tainted tears than blood.

  With a start Kargath realized he knew the youth. It was Garrosh Hellscream, son of Grom!

  “What has happened?” Garrosh demanded, lurching to a stop beside Geyah. “Why are you here? Is it the Horde?” A strange look came over the youth’s face. “Is it my—?” A horrible wet groan rose from his throat, drowning out his words, and then Garrosh fell to his knees, gasping as blood and bile spilled from his mouth, pouring down his chin and chest and soaking into the grass below.

  “I warned you not to exert yourself!” Geyah snapped, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. She did not seem concerned about the risk of touching him. “The pox is still upon you, and you’re nowhere near well enough to leave your hut yet!” Then she glared at Kargath, a nasty smile on her face. “Do you want him to join you for battle? Are these the warriors you’d hoped to find?”

  Kargath had recoiled when Garrosh started spitting up blood, and he continued to back away now. “No. They are no warriors.” Disgust and despair added venom to his words. “They are not even orcs anymore—they are useless.” He glared at Geyah, at Garrosh, and at the other villagers behind them. “You pathetic weaklings!” he snarled, raising his voice as best he could. “Do the Horde a favor and die here! If you can’t help defend your people, you have no right to live!”

  With that he turned on his heel and stalked off. There was nothing for it now but to take his remaining warriors and disappear into the hills. He lacked the numbers to make a difference at the Black Temple. Too, the more he thought about it, after being abandoned at Hellfire Citadel, Kargath felt that he did not owe Ner’zhul anything anyway. No, he would take what few soldiers he had left and find some place to hole up and rebuild. Some day they would be strong again, and then they would reclaim Hellfire Citadel and the rest of the land from there. And when he did finally die, Kargath vowed, it would be on his feet. He shuddered at what lay behind him. No matter what, he would not end up like them.

  “We need to get you back to your bed,” Geyah scolded Garrosh, though more gently now.
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  Garrosh shook off her hands. “What did he say?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper, his throat still spasming after tossing out so much liquid. “Was it—was it about my father? Is he—is he still alive?”

  Geyah looked away, unable to meet the hope flickering in the boy’s eyes. Was Grom alive? She had no idea. Not that it mattered. She had heard plenty about the older Hellscream over the past few years, about his savagery and his battle frenzy and his appetite for violence. He had been the first to give himself to the Horde and to Gul’dan’s foul magic, she knew, and it had corrupted him utterly. Even if he still lived, he would surely be beyond redemption.

  “He didn’t say anything about your father,” she told Garrosh now, gripping his arm again and refusing to be put off a second time. “I am sure he is still alive and well, else Kargath would have mentioned it.”

  Garrosh nodded and let himself be led away, his energy spent. Geyah’s heart went out to him, and to all the orcs she tended here. Would they survive the red pox? Some of them, perhaps, but not all. Yet a part of her couldn’t help feeling that at least their deaths would be cleaner than those of the orcs whose souls had been so tainted; the mark showed through to their very skin. She shook her head and continued walking with Garrosh, refusing to glance back to where the emerald-skinned Kargath was still marching away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Ho, lads!”

  Turalyon glanced up, surprised. It was overcast, and a shape had just dropped out of the heavy clouds, plummeting through the dark sky. The shout was all that stopped Alleria and her rangers from loosing arrows at the descending figure, and prevented Turalyon from ordering his men into defensive positions. Instead he stepped back and waited, hands at his side, a small smile on his lips, as Sky’ree spread her wings and swooped in for a landing.

  Kurdran was already climbing down from Sky’ree’s back while her talons were still digging into the earth, and strode up to Turalyon where he and Alleria and Khadgar waited. Turalyon’s pleasure at seeing the dwarf was dampened, however, by the dwarf’s stiff, slow gait, and changed to confusion by the strange, hunched figure that dismounted and scurried after him.

  “Ah, I’m glad to see ye all,” Kurdran said, clasping hands with Turalyon and Khadgar in turn and kissing Alleria’s hand. “An’ it were a near thing, too, for those green beasts captured me, they did.”

  Turalyon frowned and studied his short friend. “I’m glad you escaped.”

  “Nay, rescued, I was, and healed up right proper,” Kurdran corrected. “The lad Danath sprung me, an’ stormed their great ruin ta boot. Called Auchindoun, it were. Found ourselves a strange-looking friend there who might teach even ye a thing or two about healing wi’ the Light. Good thing too—I, er, wasn’t at me best.”

  Turalyon looked with fresh admiration at his friend. What Kurdran had said amounted to a confession of being at death’s door. “I’m glad,” he said fervently.

  “Eh, ye’ll nae be so glad about the next part. Ner’zhul got away. He and his pet death knight cast a spell tha’ took them straight ta a place called th’ Black Temple, an’ we couldna stop them.”

  Turalyon sighed and placed his hand on Kurdran’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Kurdran. I know you and Danath did your best. I’m grateful you’re all right.” He ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “Black Temple—sounds ominous. What do we know about it?”

  “Nae much, but yon feathered creature here will take us ta it.” Kurdran jerked a thumb at the figure who had accompanied him atop Sky’ree. It bowed obsequiously. “This is Grizzik. He led Danath into Auchindoun, an’ then Danath found his way ta me.”

  “Grizzik knows!” it stated, its voice high and reedy. “I tell you of Black Temple. I know what and where!”

  “Is this your benefactor?” Alleria asked. “The one who healed you?”

  “Nay, nay, that’s a draenei. It does get complicated.”

  “Then what are you?” Alleria asked softly, and Turalyon realized her elven eyes had pierced the shadows of the heavy cowl that hid Grizzik’s face.

  “I arakkoa,” Grizzik answered, flinging back his cowl, and Turalyon tried not to start at the stranger’s long beak and feathered hair. “We born of this world, as are orcs. Long have arakkoa kept to ourselves. Little have we to do with orcs or draenei. Then orcs rose up, banding together, forming Horde. Slaughtered draenei.”

  “Auchindoun was a draenei burial city,” Kurdran explained. “So Grizzik’s told me.”

  “And Black Temple, theirs as well,” Grizzik added. “Though it was not called that then. There draenei made their last stand, and there my brethren and I, too, came to fight orcs.” His eyes glittered with what Turalyon took for rage, though there seemed something malicious in them as well. “We failed. Though not from lack of arms. Orcs have sorcerer, Gul’dan. He very strong. He alter earth itself, raising great volcano in our midst.” Now his small eyes clearly blazed with anger.

  “Gul’dan, eh?” Khadgar swung the sack down from his shoulder, opened it, and pulled out the skull. “Here’s all that’s left of him. He won’t be causing you any more trouble,” the young-old mage told the arakkoa before dropping the skull back inside with a quickly concealed look of relief.

  Grizzik’s eyes were wide. “You slew Gul’dan?” he asked, his voice a breathy whisper.

  “No,” Turalyon admitted. “Someone else got to him first. But we have destroyed the Horde’s power and broken one of its major strongholds. Now we just need to reach the Black Temple, find Ner’zhul, and kill him as well.”

  The arakkoa bobbed his head. “I can show you way,” he assured them.

  Turalyon caught Kurdran’s eye, and the Wildhammer leader shrugged. Turalyon understood—the clever dwarf wasn’t sure whether to trust Grizzik either, but what choice did they have? “Thank you,” he told the arakkoa. “We welcome your help.” He turned to Kurdran. “We’ll draw up a rough map tonight, based on Grizzik’s information,” he said. “Tomorrow I want you to head back to Danath. We’ll decide where to meet up for the final assault.”

  Kurdran nodded. “Aye, lad, tha’s a fine plan,” he agreed. “Now, who’s got ale for me, and some food? Once I’m refreshed I’ll tell ye the full o’ our trek, and the battle at Auchindoun.”

  Turalyon smiled. “I can’t wait to hear it,” he told the dwarf, and it was true. He caught Alleria’s eye and smiled as she slipped her hand into his. Tomorrow they would begin the march again, but for tonight, at least, they could sit and drink and listen to the Wildhammer’s no doubt colorful tale.

  Several days later they rode between two low mountain ranges and saw a wide valley stretching out before them. Kurdran had found them when they were almost level with what Turalyon now knew the orcs called Hellfire Citadel and the Dark Portal. Grizzik had led them far farther south and then east, skirting the waters the arakkoa had told them were called the Devouring Sea. There, at the very edge of the land, stood the Black Temple, where the Shadowmoon Valley ran up against the mountains that dropped off into the raging sea. And it was there that Danath and the rest of the Alliance army were waiting for them.

  Danath and the others had not been idle, Turalyon saw as he reined in. A crude but effective camp stood near the southwest edge of the valley, and thick log walls were already half-erected around it.

  “Kurdran’s idea,” Danath said as he approached them, clasping Turalyon’s hand in greeting. “He felt we’d need a place where we could keep an eye on things across the valley, and this struck us both as a good vantage point.” Turalyon nodded. It was indeed that—from there they could see all the way across to the land’s edge, including the massive volcano rising up in the center and billowing smoke and ash and lava in every direction.

  “Aye, and it’s best it were someone as didn’t need ta set foot on tha’ ground,” Kurdran added as he joined them. “That lava’s green, if’n ye canna tell from here, an’ the very ground’s saturated with it.”

  Khadgar nodded and Turalyon noticed th
e pained expression on his friend’s face. “Fel magic,” he whispered hoarsely. “The purest I’ve ever seen.” The archmage shook his head. “I don’t even want to know what sort of spells Gul’dan worked to cause this. It’s a violation of nature itself—no wonder this world is dying.” He frowned at Kurdran. “Keep your people as far from that thing as possible,” he warned, “and don’t enter the valley any more than necessary.”

  “Och, aye, we’ll steer well clear,” Kurdran assured him. “The good news, though, is that we’ve already scouted the valley for ye.” He produced a roll of parchment and showed them the map he’d sketched out. “The Black Temple be there, at the far east end,” he said, gesturing toward where a massive dark structure could be clearly seen across the valley. “An’ there’s no easy way out from it, either, ’cepting through this valley. It’s a big horseshoe, it is, and its open end points this way.”

  “Any sign of Ner’zhul?” Alleria asked.

  “Aye, he’s there,” Kurdran answered. “An’ those death knights as well. Plus some orcs, though not many.” He grinned. “We’ve got them pinned in—they’ll nae be goin’ anywhere.”

  Turalyon glanced over at Danath, who nodded. “We laid siege to the temple as soon as we arrived,” he explained. “I didn’t want to risk them getting reinforcements.”

  “Good.” Turalyon turned to the others. “We need to get over there ourselves. Khadgar, you’re the key here—we need you to take out Ner’zhul and stop his spell. Alleria, you and your rangers protect him from long-range attacks. Shoot down anything that even looks his way. I’ll be right beside him to take care of anything close by. We smash through their defenses, find Ner’zhul, kill him, take back the artifacts, and get the hell out. Agreed?”

  “Absolutely,” Khadgar agreed, and the others nodded as well.