"Now come and sit, and tell me what has happened," Terenas instructed, gesturing to the dais steps. He sat on the top one himself and motioned for Varian to sit beside him. "I have seen Stormwind myself, and admired its strength and beauty. What could destroy such a city?"
"The Horde," Khadgar said, speaking for the first time since they had entered the throneroom. Terenas turned toward him, and Lothar was close enough to see the king's eyes narrow slightly. "The Horde did this."
"And what is this Horde?" Terenas demanded, turning first to Varian and then to Lothar.
"It is an army, more than an army," Lothar replied. "It is a multitude, more than can be counted, enough to cover the land from shore to shore."
"And who commands this legion of men?" Terenas asked.
"Not men," Lothar corrected. "Orcs." At the king's puzzlement Lothar explained. "A new race, one not native to this world. They are as tall as we are, and more powerfully built, with green skin and glowing red eyes. And great tusks from their lower lips." A noble snorted somewhere, and Lothar turned, glaring. "You doubt me?" he shouted, turning toward each of the balconies in turn, looking for the one who had laughed. "You think I lie?" He struck his armor with his fist, near one of the more prominent dents. "This was made by an orc warhammer!" He struck another spot. "And this by an orc war axe!" He pointed to a gash along one forearm. "And this came from a tusk, when one jumped me and was too close for our blades to strike one another! These foul creatures have destroyed my land, my home, my people! If you doubt me come down here and say so to my face! I will show you what sort of man I am, and what happens to those who accuse me of falsehood!"
"Enough!" Terenas's shout silenced any possible reply, anger plain in his own voice, but when he turned to Lothar the warrior could see that this king's anger was not directed at him. "Enough," the king said again, more softly. "None here doubt your word, Champion," he assured Lothar, a stern look around daring any of his nobles to disagree. "I know of your honor and your loyalty. I will take you at your word, though such creatures sound strange to us." He turned and nodded at Khadgar. "And with one of the wizards of Dalaran beside you as a witness, we cannot discount what you say, nor the notion of races never seen here before."
"I thank you, King Terenas," Lothar replied formally, reining his anger back in. He was not sure what to do next. Fortunately, Terenas was.
"I will summon my neighboring kings," he announced. "These events concern us all." He turned back toward Varian. "Your Majesty, I offer you my home and my protection for as long as you shall need it," he stated, loud enough for all to hear. "When you are ready, know that Lordaeron will assist you in reclaiming your kingdom."
Lothar nodded. "Your Majesty, you are most generous," he said on Varian's behalf, "and I can think of no safer and finer place for my prince to reach his maturity than here in Capital City. Know, however, that we did not come here merely for sanctuary. We came to warn you." He stood tall, his voice rumbling across the room, his eyes not leaving Lordaeron's king. "For know this—the Horde will not stop at Stormwind. They mean to claim the entire world, and they have the might and the numbers to make their dream a reality. Nor do they lack magical might. Once they have finished with my homeland—" His voice grew deeper and rougher and he forced himself to continue. "They will find a way across the ocean. And they will come here."
"You are telling us to prepare for war," Terenas said quietly. It was not a question, but Lothar answered nonetheless.
"Yes." He looked around at the assembled men. "A war for the very survival of our race."
CHAPTER TWO
Orgrim Doomhammer, chieftain of the Blackrock clan and warchief of the Horde, surveyed the scene. He stood near the center of Stormwind as his warriors destroyed the once—great city around him. Everywhere he turned there was destruction and devastation. Buildings burned despite being made of stone. Bodies and rubble littered the street. Blood flowed across the flagstones, pooling here and there. Screams indicated that survivors had been found and were being tortured.
Doomhammer nodded. It was good.
Stormwind had been an imposing city and a powerful obstacle. For a time he had not been sure they could topple its great walls or overwhelm its stalwart defenders. Despite the Horde's superior numbers, the humans had fought back with skill and determination. Doomhammer respected them for that. They had been worthy opponents.
Yet they had fallen, as all must, before his people's might. The city had been breached, its defenders killed or run off, and now this land was theirs. This rich, fertile land, so like their own homeworld had been before the cataclysm. Before Gul'dan and his folly had destroyed it.
Doomhammer's thoughts turned grim and his grip tightened on his fabled hammer. Gul'dan! The treacherous shaman—turned—warlock had caused more trouble than he was worth. Only his opening the rift to this new world had saved him from being torn apart by enraged clansmen. Yet somehow the schemer had turned even that to his advantage. He had taken control of Blackhand—or perhaps he had always had it. Doomhammer had watched his former chieftain for years and knew the massive orc warrior had been smarter than he let on. But not smart enough. And by playing to Blackhand's ego Gul'dan had swayed him and taken control. He had been behind the plan to unite the clans into the Horde, Doomhammer was sure of that. And Gul'dan's Shadow Council had ruled from behind the scenes, advising Blackhand in such a way that he never realized they were in fact issuing orders.
Doomhammer grinned. That, at least, was ended now. He had not been pleased at being forced to kill Blackhand. He had been the warchief's Second and sworn to fight beside him, not against him. But tradition allowed a warrior to challenge his chieftain for supremacy and Doomhammer had finally been forced to take that route. He had won, as he knew he must, and with the blow that crushed Blackhand's skull he had taken control of their clan—and of the Horde.
That had left the Shadow Council to deal with. And that had been a pleasure.
He chuckled at the memory. Few orcs had even known of the council's existence, much less its membership and sanctuary. But Doomhammer had guessed whom to ask. The half—orc Garona had been tortured into revealing the council's location—no doubt her non—orc blood made her too weak to withstand much. The look on the warlocks' faces as he had burst into their meeting had been priceless. And even moreso their expressions as he had advanced through the room, slaughtering them left and right. Doomhammer had shattered the power of the Shadow Council that day. He would not be controlled as Blackhand had. He would choose his own battles and make his own plans, not to increase anyone's power but to ensure his people's survival.
As if thinking of him had been a summons, Doomhammer spotted two figures approaching him down the broad, bloodied street. One was shorter than an average orc, the other far taller and with a strange shape. Doomhammer knew them at once and his lips curled away from his tusks in a sneer.
"Have you completed your task, then?" he called out as Gul'dan and his lackey Cho'gall approached. He kept his gaze on the warlock, barely sparing a sharp glance at his hulking subordinate. Doomhammer had fought ogres all his life, as had most orcs. He had been disgusted when Blackhand had forged an alliance with the monstrous creatures, though he admitted they had their use in combat. But he still did not like or trust them. And Cho'gall was worse than most. He was one of that rare breed, the two—headed ogre, and had far more intelligence than his brutish brethren. Cho'gall was a mage in his own right, and the idea of an ogre with such power filled Doomhammer with dread. Plus Cho'gall had gained control of the Twilight's Hammer clan, and showed the same fanaticism as the orcs who followed him. That made the two—headed ogre very dangerous. Not that Doomhammer would ever let such concerns show, but he kept his grip on his hammer tight whenever the ogre mage was near.
"I have not, noble Doomhammer," Gul'dan replied, stopping beside him. The warlock looked thin but otherwise no worse for his months—long slumber. "But I have at last shaken off the last effects of my prolonged slumbe
r. And I bring powerful news drawn from that same long repose!"
"Oh? Your sleep has brought you wisdom?"
"It has shown me the path to great power," Gul'dan admitted, lust clear in his eyes. But Doomhammer knew it was not an ordinary lust, not for females or fine food or wealth. Gul'dan thought only of power, and would do anything to obtain it. His actions on their own world had proven that.
"Power for you or for the Horde?" Doomhammer demanded.
"For both," the warlock replied. His voice dropped to a sly whisper. "I have seen a place, ancient beyond imagining, older even than the sacred mountain of our homeworld. It lies deep beneath the waves, and within it rests a power that could reshape this world. We could claim it as our own, and none can stand against us!"
"None can stand against us now," Doomhammer growled back. "And I prefer the honest might of hammer and axe to whatever foul sorceries you have uncovered. Look what your scheming did to our world, and to our people, the last time! I will not have you destroy them further or wreck this new world just as we have begun to conquer it!"
"This is far greater than your desires," the warlock snapped, his temper brushing aside any pretense of servility. "My destiny lies beneath the water, and there is little you can do to stop that! This Horde is but the first step in our people's path, and it shall be I who lead them beyond here, not you!"
"Have a care, warlock," Doomhammer replied, his hammer coming up to tap Gul'dan lightly on the cheek. "Remember what happened to your precious Shadow Council. I can crush your skull in an instant, and then where will your destiny lie?" He glowered up at the towering Cho'gall. "And do not think this abomination will save you," he snarled, raising the hammer higher and laughing as the ogre mage stepped back, fear washing across both his faces. "I have felled ogres before, even the gronn. I can and will do so again." He leaned in close. "Your goals are no longer important. Only the Horde matters."
For an instant he saw anger flicker in Gul'dan's eyes and thought the warlock might not back down. And a part of him rejoiced. Doomhammer had always admired and revered his people's shaman, as had all orcs, but these warlocks were something far different. Their power did not come from the elements or the ancestor—spirits but from some other, horrible source. It had been their magic that had turned his people from wholesome brown to gruesome green, and was killing their own world, forcing them to come here just to survive. And Gul'dan was their leader, their instigator, by far the most powerful, most cunning, and most selfish of them all. Doomhammer knew the warlocks' value to the Horde but he could not help but feel they would all be better off without them.
Perhaps Gul'dan saw this in his own eyes, for the anger vanished, replaced by caution and grudging respect. "Of course, mighty Doomhammer," the warlock said, dropping his head. "You are correct. The Horde must come first." He grinned, fully recovered from his fright, the anger apparently gone or at least buried deep once more. "And I have many new ideas to aid our conquest. But first I shall deliver the warriors I promised, unstoppable but fully under your control."
Doomhammer nodded slowly. "Very well," he grated. "I will not ignore anything that could make our success more assured." He turned away, dismissing the warlock and his lieutenant, and Gul'dan took the hint, bowing and walking away, Cho'gall stomping along beside him. Doomhammer knew he would have to watch both of them very closely. Gul'dan was not one to take an insult lightly, or to allow anyone to control him for long. But until the warlock stepped out of line his magic would be useful, and Doomhammer would take full advantage of that. The sooner they crushed any opposition, the sooner his people could set aside their weapons and turn to building homes and families once more.
With that in mind, Doomhammer sought out another of his lieutenants, finding him at last in what had once been a great hall, feasting upon the food and drink they had found there.
"Zuluhed!" The orc shaman glanced up as Doomhammer shouted his name and quickly stood, pushing away the goblet and platter before him. Though old and thin and shriveled, Zuluhed's red—brown eyes were still sharp beneath his tattered gray braids.
"Doomhammer." Unlike Gul'dan, Zuluhed did not snivel or bow, and Doomhammer respected that. But then Zuluhed was a chieftain in his own right, the head of the Dragonmaw clan. He was also a shaman, the only shaman to have accompanied the Horde. And it was those abilities and what they might provide that interested Doomhammer.
"How goes the work?" Doomhammer did not bother with pleasantries, though he did accept the goblet Zuluhed offered him. The wine within it was fine indeed, and the traces of human blood that had spilled into it only enhanced the flavor.
"The same," the Dragonmaw leader replied, disgust written plainly across his features.
Months ago Zuluhed had approached, telling Doomhammer of strange visions that had plagued him. Visions of a particular mountain range, and of a mighty treasure buried deep beneath it—a treasure not of wealth but of power. Doomhammer respected the older chieftain and remembered the power of a shaman's visions from their own world. He had approved Zuluhed's request to lead his clan in search of that mountain and the power it concealed. It had taken weeks but at last the Dragonmaw clan had found a cavern deep in the earth, and within it a strange object, a golden disc they had named the Demon Soul. Though Doomhammer had not seen the artifact himself, Zuluhed had assured him that it radiated immense age and incredible power. Unfortunately, that power was proving difficult to obtain.
"You assured me you could trigger its power," Doomhammer reminded, tossing the empty goblet aside. It struck the far wall with a dull crunch.
"And I shall," Zuluhed assured him. "The Demon Soul contains immense resources, enough power to let us shatter mountains and tear open the sky!" He frowned. "But thus far it has resisted my magics." He shook his head. "But I will find the key! I know it! I have seen it in my dreams! And once we can tap its power, we shall use it to enslave our chosen servants! And with them beneath us we shall rule the skies, and rain fire down upon all those who stand against us!"
"Excellent." Doomhammer clapped the other orc on the shoulder. The shaman's fanaticism worried him from time to time, especially since Zuluhed did not seem to live entirely in this world, but he had no doubts of his loyalty. That was why he had supported the old orc's quest, when he had spurned Gul'dan's request to embark on a similarly vision—based search for power. Doomhammer knew that, whatever else happened, Zuluhed would not turn against him or against their people. And if this Demon Soul could do half what Zuluhed had promised, if it enabled the shaman to make his visions a reality, it would indeed ensure the Horde's superiority in battle. "Send word when all is ready."
"Of course." Zuluhed saluted him with his own goblet, which he refilled from a blood—smeared golden pitcher. Doomhammer left the shaman to his celebration and resumed his wanderings through the fallen city. He liked to see what his warriors were doing firsthand, and he knew that seeing their leader walking among them gave the others a sense of him as one of them, bonding them to him ever more tightly. Blackhand had known that as well, making sure his orcs saw him as a fellow warrior as well as a chieftain and later warchief, and it was one of the lessons Doomhammer had learned well from his predecessor. His meeting with Zuluhed had wiped away the sour taste Gul'dan had left in his mouth, and as he stalked through the streets Doomhammer found his spirits high. His people had achieved a great victory here and deserved to celebrate. He would let them enjoy themselves for a few days. Then they would move on to the next target.
Gul'dan watched Doomhammer from a few buildings away.
"What are he and Zuluhed planning?" he demanded, not turning away from glaring at the Warchief's retreating back.
"I do not know," Cho'gall admitted. "They have been secretive about it. I know it involves something the Dragonmaw found in the mountains. Half their clan is there now but I do not know what they are doing."
"Well, it does not matter." Gul'dan frowned, rubbing absently at one tusk as he thought. "Whatever it is, it serves t
o keep Doomhammer distracted, and that works to our advantage. It would not do for him to uncover our own plans before we can set them in motion." He grinned. "And then—then it will be too late for him."
"Will you replace him as warchief?" Cho'gall's other head asked as they moved away, returning to the quarters that had been set aside for them.
"Myself? No." Gul'dan laughed. "I have no desire to march through the streets with an axe or a hammer, meeting my foes in the flesh," he admitted. "My path is the far greater one. I shall meet them in spirit and crush them from afar, devouring them by the hundreds and the thousands." He smiled at the thought. "Soon all that was promised me shall be mine, and then Doomhammer will be as nothing against me. Even the might of the Horde will pale before me, and I shall stretch out my hand and wipe this world clean, to remake it in my own image!" He laughed again, and the sound came back to him from the tumbled walls and torn buildings, as if the dying city were laughing with him.
CHAPTER THREE
Khadgar watched quietly from one side of the throneroom. Lothar had wanted him present both as a witness and, Khadgar suspected, as a familiar face in this strange land, and Khadgar's own curiosity had compelled him to accept the invitation. But he knew better than to present himself to these men as an equal—despite the power he now wielded personally, every one of them was a ruler and capable of having him killed in seconds. Besides, Khadgar felt he had been in the center of things too much of late. As a youth he had been more accustomed to watching and waiting and studying before he acted. It was nice to return to old habits again, if only for the moment.
He recognized many of the men present, at least by description. The large, bearish man with the thick features, the heavy black beard, and the black and gray armor was Genn Graymane. He ruled the southern nation of Gilneas, and Khadgar had heard he was far more clever than his appearance suggested. The tall, slender man with the weathered skin and the green naval uniform was of course Admiral Daelin Proudmoore. He ruled Kul Tiras, but it was his position as commander of the world's largest, fiercest navy that made even Terenas treat him as an equal. The quiet, cultured—looking man with the graying brown hair and hazel eyes was Lord Aiden Perenolde, master of Alterac. He was glaring at Thoras Trollbane, king of neighboring Stromgarde, but the tall, gruff Trollbane was ignoring him, his leathers and furs apparently shielding him as well from Perenolde's anger as they did from his mountain home's fierce weather. Instead Trollbane's craggy features were turned toward a short, stout man with a snow—white beard and a friendly face. He needed no introduction anywhere on the continent, even without his ceremonial robes and staff—Alonsus Faol was the archbishop of the Church of Light and revered by humans everywhere. Khadgar could see why—he had never met Faol himself but just watching him created a sense of peace and wisdom.
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