"Yes, go now," the Warchief agreed. "Bring the fight to the elves. Spare no one and nothing." The forest troll leader grinned and tilted his head back to let loose a strange warbling cry. Another forest troll appeared immediately, just beyond where the two leaders stood, moving as silently and suddenly as a ghost. A third dropped from the rocks overhead to stand beside him, and another beside that one, and more after them, until the small valley behind the hill was filled with the tall, lanky forest creatures. There were far more than Doomhammer remembered Zul'jin bringing with him, and his surprise must have shown because the forest troll leader grinned through his everpresent scarf.
"Found more," he explained, laughing. "Witherbark tribe. They be joinin' us."
Doomhammer nodded. He was not particularly afraid of them, though the trolls were taller than him. He had faced bigger and stronger foes before and always he had been the one to walk away. Besides, in the months since forging their alliance Zul'jin had impressed him. The forest troll was a clever one but he also had honor. He had promised his people's aid to the Horde and would not go back on that. Doomhammer was willing to risk his life on that belief.
Of course, the fact that the forest trolls apparently hated these high elves certainly helped. The trolls had been all in favor of turning north toward Quel'Thalas, and had been almost frantic to breach the elven forest and begin finding and attacking the elves themselves. Doomhammer had insisted they wait, however. He wanted the rest of the Horde properly in position before the trolls struck. And Zul'jin had managed to keep his brethren in line, even though he was just as eager to strike as they were.
But now the time for waiting was over. With a howl Zul'jin leaped forward and raced down the hills. He did not slow as he struck the edge of the forest but jumped up into the trees, springing easily from limb to limb. The rest of his people followed him, bounding into the trees and disappearing from view, with only the rustle of leaves and the occasional growl to mark their presence. But Doomhammer knew they would make their way deep into the massive forest, seeking elves and killing any they found. Soon the forest's defenders would know about the trolls' invasion and would rush to meet them.
And that would keep the elves busy, too busy to check their borders for other threats.
Doomhammer signaled, and the rest of the Horde swept over the hill as well, marching steadily across the narrow strip of grassland and at last reaching the first row of trees.
"Now, Warchief?" a nearby orc warrior asked, axe at the ready. Doomhammer nodded, and the warrior turned back to the tree beside him, its trunk thick from age and smooth as silk, its leaves rich and green and smelling of nature and life and bounty—and with a mighty swing the orc chipped a large splinter of bark and wood from its trunk. Then he swung again, expanding the chip.
"No no!" Doomhammer snatched the axe from the startled warrior, shoving him back. "Do not approach it at an angle, but straight on," he instructed. He pulled the axe back, bunching his muscles, and then swung with all his force, imbedding the axe partway through the trunk. Then with a mighty wrench he retrieved the weapon and struck again in the same spot, deepening the wound. A third blow saw the axe almost through to the other side, only a small portion of wood and bark remaining. Doomhammer pulled the axe back, angling it upward as he did so its head pushed upward on the trunk, and the tree tipped and fell, snapping that remaining section from its own weight and momentum. The ground shook as the tree hit, and leaves and berries flew everywhere.
"There, like that." He tossed the axe back to the warrior, who nodded and moved to the next tree in line. A second warrior was already stepping up to the felled tree, axe in hand, ready to begin the task of chopping the great tree into smaller segments.
Beyond him more warriors were about the same task. Carrying supplies for an army as large as the Horde was a hopeless task, so instead they took what they needed from the lands they had conquered. And the wood from these trees would keep the Horde's fires burning for weeks. Perhaps even months. The fact that every tree they cut down deprived the elves of additional protection only made the task sweeter.
Doomhammer was leaning upon his hammer, watching the work progress, when he saw motion from the corner of his eye. A short, heavy—set orc with a bristling beard was heading toward him, scarred face twisted in an expression Doomhammer wasn't sure he liked. Gul'dan was excited about something.
"What is it?" Doomhammer demanded before the chief warlock had reached him.
"Something you should see, mighty Doomhammer," Gul'dan replied, sweeping into a low bow. Cho'gall chuckled and aped the gesture behind him. "Something that could aid the Horde greatly."
Doomhammer nodded and swung his hammer up onto his shoulder, gesturing for Gul'dan to precede him. The warlock turned and led both Doomhammer and Cho'gall back around, perhaps a hundred feet from where he had stood. Here stood a massive stone, forcing a gap in the trees. Its rough surface was carved with runes and even Doomhammer, who had no gift at all for the supernatural or spiritual, could feel the power radiating off this crude monolith.
"What is it?" he demanded.
"I do not know exactly," Gul'dan answered, stroking his beard. "But it is very powerful. I believe these Runestones, for there are others spaced evenly around the forest's edge, serve as a mystic barrier."
"They did not stop us," Doomhammer pointed out.
"No, because we used nothing more than our own hands and feet and blades," Gul'dan replied. "I believe these Runestones restrict the use of magic within, most likely allowing only the elves' own magic to function. I have tried tapping my magic here and I cannot, but if I move ten paces away, toward the hills, my spells return."
Doomhammer eyed the large hunk of stone with a new appreciation. "So we take them and set them around our enemies and they cannot cast spells," he mused, wondering how many orcs it would take to move the monoliths, and how they would transport them.
"That is one approach, yes," Gul'dan agreed, his tone clearly saying what he thought of such an idea. "But I have another in mind, my warchief. If you will indulge me a moment." Doomhammer nodded. He did not trust Gul'dan, not at all, but the warlock had proven useful with the creation of the death knights. He was curious what the stocky orc had in mind now.
"These stones contain immense magic," Gul'dan explained. "I believe I can harness that power for our own purposes."
‘What do you mean?" Doomhammer demanded. He knew better than to give Gul'dan free rein. No, he wanted specifics.
"I can use these to create an altar," Gul'dan replied. "An Altar of Storms. By channeling the energy from these stones, I can transform creatures. We will make them more powerful, more dangerous, though they may suffer some disfigurement."
"I doubt any orc will let you experiment upon him a second time," Doomhammer pointed out sharply. He still remembered quite clearly the night Gul'dan had offered the so—called Cup of Unity, the Chalice of Rebirth, to every chieftain in the Horde, and to any warriors they deemed worthy. Doomhammer had not trusted the warlock, even then, and when Blackhand had invited him to drink he had refused, saying he did not wish to take away from his chieftain by sharing such power with him. But he had seen what the liquid had done to his friends and clanmates. It had made them larger and stronger, yes. But it had also turned their eyes a glowing red and their already greenish skin a vivid green, signs of demonic taint. And it had driven them all mad with bloodlust, with rage, with hunger. It had turned the once—noble orcs into animals, crazed killers. Some of the orcs had regretted their transformation later, but by then it was of course too late.
Gul'dan smiled as if he knew what his warchief was thinking. And perhaps he did. Who knew what strange powers the warlock now possessed? But he only replied to Doomhammer's words, not the thoughts behind them.
"I will not use an orc to test these altars," Gul'dan assured him. "No, I will use a creature that can benefit from even more strength but will barely notice any reduction to intellect." He grinned. "I will use an ogre."
Doomhammer considered that. They did not have many ogres but the ones they did control were easily worth ten times their weight in other soldiers. To make them even stronger—that would definitely be worth the risk. "All right," he said at last. "You may build one of these Altars. Let us see what happens. If it works I will supply you with more ogres, or any other race you wish." Gul'dan bowed low and Doomhammer nodded, his mind already onto other logistics as he turned away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Faster, damn you! Move faster!" Alleria struck her thigh with one fist, as if that motion could somehow spur the troops to more speed. She paced them for a moment, then sped up, unable to move that slowly for long. Within minutes she had passed the long line of men and caught up with the cavalry again. Automatically she glanced around, searching for the short blond hair near the front. There!
"You need to pick up the pace," she snapped at Turalyon as she slid between the other horses and moved alongside him. The young Paladin started and flushed, but right now she could not take her normal pleasure in his reaction. There was no time for such foolishness!
"We're moving as fast as we can," he told her calmly, though she noticed he glanced behind him to gauge the troops' speed anyway. "You know our men cannot match you for speed. And armies always move more slowly than individuals."
"Then I'll go on myself, as I should have from the start," she insisted, tensing to sprint past the horses and deeper into the forest.
"No!" Something in his voice stopped her, and she cursed under her breath. Why couldn't she disobey him? He didn't have the same presence as Lothar, and she was cooperating with the Alliance army at her own volition, not from any orders. Yet when he did actually command her she found herself unable to resist. Which didn't mean she couldn't argue.
"Let me go!" she insisted. "I need to warn them!" Her heart twisted again at the thought of her sisters, her friends, her kin being caught unawares by the Horde.
"We will warn them," Turalyon assured her, and she could hear the certainty in his voice. "And we will help them stand against the Horde. But if you go by yourself you will be caught, and killed, and that…will not do anyone any good." It had sounded as if he'd meant to say something else, and she felt a sudden surge of—was that joy? — in her chest, but had no time to wonder about it.
"I am an elf, and a ranger!" she insisted hotly. "I can disappear into the trees! No one can find me!"
"Not even a forest troll?" She turned and glared at the wizard, who was riding on Turalyon's far side. "Because we know they're working with the Horde," he continued. "And we know they're almost your equal in woodcraft."
"Almost, perhaps," she conceded. "But I am still better."
"No one would deny that," Khadgar agreed diplomatically, though she could see the grin lurking behind his calm. "But we don't know how many of them are out there, between us and your home. And ten of them would more than make up for your superior skill."
Alleria cursed again. He was right, of course. She knew that. But that didn't stop her from wanting to run full—speed, not caring about potential obstacles. She had seen the Horde, seen what it could do. She knew the dangers it posed. And now it was heading for her home! And her people had no idea such a danger was approaching!
"Just get them moving!" she snapped at Turalyon, and sprinted ahead, scouting the path. She half—hoped she would come across a few trolls or orcs, but knew they were still too far ahead for her to see. The Horde had a significant lead on them right now, and if those human soldiers could not move beyond their current snail's pace it would only increase!
"She's worried," Khadgar said quietly as they watched Alleria disappear from view.
"I know," Turalyon replied. "I can't blame her. I'd be worried too, if the Horde was heading toward my home. I was when we thought they would march toward Capital City, and that's as close to a home as I've had these past ten years or more." He sighed. "Plus she's only got half the Alliance army at her back. And only me to command it."
"Stop selling yourself short," his friend warned. "You're a good commander and a noble Paladin, one of the Silver Hand, the finest in Lordaeron. She's lucky to have you."
Turalyon smiled at his friend, grateful for the reassurance. He only wished he believed it. Oh, he knew he was decent enough in combat—he'd had sufficient training, and their first clash with the Horde had proven he could translate that into real fighting skill. But a leader? Before this war he had never had to lead anything, not even prayers. What did he know about leading anything?
True, as a boy he had been forward enough, often devising the games he and his friends played or commanding one of their mock—armies when they played at war. But once he'd joined the priesthood all that had changed. He had taken orders from the senior priests, and then after they had brought him to Faol he'd followed the archbishop's instructions. Upon joining the ranks of the first Paladins in training, he had fallen under Uther's guidance, as had they all—Uther had a powerful personality that did not brook dispute. He was also the oldest of them, and the closest to the archbishop.
Turalyon had been surprised Lothar had not chosen Uther as his lieutenant, though perhaps he felt the older Paladin's faith might make it difficult for him to interact with less pious men. Turalyon had been honored and shocked to be granted such a rank, and kept wondering what he could have done to deserve it. If he did deserve it.
Lothar seemed to think so. And the Champion of Stormwind had enough experience and wisdom to know. He was an incredible warrior and an amazing leader, someone the men followed automatically, the kind of man who demanded respect and obedience from everyone who met him. Already Alliance warriors called him "the Lion of Azeroth," from the sight of his shield flashing through the orc ranks at Hillsbrad. Turalyon wondered if he'd ever have even a portion of that presence.
He also wondered if he'd ever have a fraction of Uther's piety. And of his faith, or the powers that bestowed.
Turalyon believed in the Holy Light, of course. He had since he was a small child, and serving in the priesthood had brought him closer to that glorious presence. But he had never felt it directly, not its full strength, just glimmers of its attention or the outpouring of its effect on another. And after seeing the Horde, and facing them in battle, he found his faith weaker than ever.
The Holy Light, after all, resided in every living being, in every heart and soul. It was everywhere, the energy that bound all sentient beings together as one. But the Horde was terrible, monstrous. They did things no rational being could do; depraved, horrible things. They were truly beyond redemption. And how could such creatures be part of the Holy Light? How could its brilliant illumination reside within such utter darkness? And if it did, what did that say about its strength, that its purity and love could be so overpowered? But if it did not, if the Horde was not part of the Holy Light, then it was not universal, as Turalyon had been taught. And what did that mean about its presence and its strength, and about the relationship of every being to every other being?
He didn't know. And that was the problem. His faith had been severely shaken. He had tried praying since meeting the Horde, but it had been empty words. His heart was not in it. And without that commitment the words meant nothing, accomplished nothing. Turalyon knew the other paladins could cast their blessing upon soldiers, could sense evil, could even heal grievous wounds with but a touch. But he could not. He was not sure he had ever had such talents, and he certainly did not possess them now. He wondered if he ever would.
"You've gone quiet again." Khadgar leaned closer and nudged him with one hand. "Don't think too deeply or you'll fall right out of the saddle." His tone was friendly and only a little concerned, and Turalyon did his best to smile at the weak joke.
"I'm fine," he assured the old—seeming mage. "Just wondering what to do next."
"What do you mean?" Khadgar glanced around, and looked back at the troops marching behind them. "You're doing fine. Keep the men moving, make the best time we can, and hope
we catch the Horde before they can do too much damage."
"I know." Turalyon frowned. "I just wish there was some way we could pass them and reach Quel'Thalas first. Perhaps Alleria's right—maybe I should let her go on ahead. But if she got caught, if anything happened to her…" he trailed off and glared at Khadgar, who was now grinning openly. "What?"
"Oh, nothing," his friend said, laughing. "But if you're this concerned about every soldier, we might as well give up now, because you won't be willing to send any of them into battle for fear they'll get hurt." Turalyon swatted at the mage, who ducked the blow, still laughing. And they rode on, the army stretching out behind them.
"Almost there," Turalyon assured Alleria, who was pacing around his horse as if he was standing still.
"I know that!" she snapped, barely looking up. "This is my home, remember? I know the distance better than you could!"
Turalyon sighed. It had been a long two weeks. Leading the army had been demanding, though he had already done much of the same work on previous marches. The difference was that, before, Lothar had been responsible for the final decisions. This time it was all up to Turalyon, and that had been an added weight, enough to make him lose sleep most nights. And then there had been Alleria. All the elves had been on edge the whole way, worrying what might be happening in Quel'Thalas. But the others had kept quiet, knowing voicing their concerns would only increase his stress and possibly slow them down further. Not Alleria. She had questioned every decision the whole way: why they were taking one valley and not another, why they were lighting camp fires instead of eating and sleeping cold, why they were halting at twilight instead of marching on into the night. Turalyon had been nervous enough about taking command, but Alleria's constant badgering had made it ten times worse. He felt like he was under constant scrutiny, and like every decision earned her further disapproval.
"We'll reach the base of the foothills soon," he reminded her. "Once we have we should be able to see the borders of Quel'Thalas. Then we'll know how far the Horde has gotten. Perhaps they were slowed going over the mountains, and have not yet reached it." That had been one blessing, at least. Lothar had persuaded the Wildhammer dwarves to send one of their number down to Alterac. The dwarf had carried orders for Admiral Proudmoore, who had several ships stationed near Darrowmere Lake.
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