Tides of Darkness (world of warcraf)

by Aaron Rosenberg

  Lothar struck first. His sword swept in from the side, angling suddenly to weave below Doomhammer's block, and carved a furrow in the orc's heavy armor. The Horde warchief grunted from the impact and retaliated by bringing his hammer down fast, missing Lothar only because the Champion danced back a step. But Doomhammer reversed his grip suddenly and swept the weapon back up, catching Lothar a glancing blow under the chin and sending him stumbling backward. A quick hammer blow followed, but Lothar brought his sword up in time to block it, catching the heavy weapon on its handle. For a second the two warriors struggled, Doomhammer to bring his hammer down and Lothar to knock it aside, and the weapons quivered but did not move.

  Then Lothar twisted his blade and succeeded in sending the hammer wide. He stepped in close while Doomhammer was bringing the massive weapon back around and struck the orc in the face with the flat of his blade, stunning the warchief for an instant. But Doomhammer lashed out with his free hand, catching Lothar a ringing blow in the neck, and regained his weapon and his composure while the Alliance commander staggered from that impact.

  Turalyon was battling orcs of his own, but a powerful hammer blow dropped one opponent and over the falling warrior he saw Lothar and the massive orc locked in battle. "No!" Turalyon shouted, seeing his leader and hero facing the monstrous black—armored orc. He began striking with renewed force, his hammer crushing orcs with each sweeping blow, as he desperately fought his way toward the two commanders.

  They both stepped in again, hammer and sword swinging. Lothar took Doomhammer's hit full upon his lion—head shield, which crumpled from the impact and nearly drove him to his knees, but his sword caught the orc hard across the chest and dented the heavy breastplate deeply. Doomhammer stepped back, his lips pulling back in a snarl of pain and frustration, and ripped the ruined armor from his torso just as Lothar rose to his feet again and tossed his useless shield to the side. Then both bellowed and charged again.

  Doomhammer was faster now without the armor, but Lothar had his sword in both hands and could dance it around the orc's defenses. Both took solid blows, Doomhammer a nasty gash across his stomach and Lothar a heavy blow to his right side, and both staggered slightly as they parted for the third time. Around them other orcs and humans fought their own savage battles, as the two powerful leaders struck out again and again, each seeking a weak point in his opponent's defense, each delivering punishing attacks and receiving them in return.

  The two closed again, and Doomhammer slammed Lothar in the chest with one heavy fist, the impact rocking the Champion on his heels and denting his breastplate. Before he could recover fully Doomhammer stepped back himself and brought his massive hammer down with both hands, all his strength behind the blow. Lothar swung his sword up to block the vicious attack, and took the full force of the swing upon his blade—which shattered from the impact.

  A gasp escaped Turalyon as pieces of the legendary sword fell to the ground. And Doomhammer's blow, now unimpeded, continued its glittering downward arc, striking the top of Lothar's helm with a sickening crunch. The Lion of Azeroth swayed, bringing his ruined sword down reflexively, and laid open Doomhammer's chest with the jagged half—blade before collapsing himself. There was utter silence as both sides stopped fighting and stared at the Alliance commander splayed upon the ground, his body twitching as the life fled him. And then nothing moved save the pool of blood spreading rapidly from beneath his ruined head.

  Doomhammer took an unsteady step, one hand rising to press against the gaping wound across his torso. Blood leaked out around his fingers, but still he stood straight and, with an effort, raised his hammer high above his head.

  "I have conquered!" he proclaimed in a hoarse whisper, swaying and spitting blood but still victorious. "And so shall all our foes die, until your world belongs to us!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY—TWO

  "NO!" The word burst from Turalyon's lips as he shoved through the crowd and dropped to his knees beside the dead body of his hero, his mentor, his commander. Then his gaze switched to the orc towering above him, and something within him clicked into place.

  For months Turalyon had been struggling with his faith, and with one particular question: How could the Holy Light unite all creatures, all souls, when something as monstrous, as cruel, and as purely evil as the orc Horde walked this world? Unable to reconcile the two he had been unsure of himself and of the Church's teachings, and had looked on with envy as Uther and the other Paladins gave blessings and shone bright with zeal, knowing he could not match their abilities.

  But something this orc, this Doomhammer, had just said had registered on some level below conscious thought, and Turalyon tried to trace it. "Until your world belongs to us," the Horde warchief had gloated. "Your world," not "our world" or even "this world."

  And that was the answer.

  He had remembered the Dark Portal, of course—Khadgar had told him about it when they had first met, while describing the orc menace, and it had been mentioned several times since then. But for some reason the truth of it had never really sunk in. Until now.

  The orcs were not of this world.

  They were foreign to this planet, to this very plane of existence. They came from elsewhere, and were powered by demons from even farther beyond.

  The Holy Light did unite all life, everyone in this world. But not the orcs, who did not belong here.

  And that meant his task was clear. He was charged with upholding the Holy Light and using its blazing glory to scour this world clean of all threats from without, and to maintain the purity within.

  The orcs did not belong here. And that meant he could strike them down with impunity.

  "By the Light, your time here has ended!" he shouted, rising to his feet. And a brilliant glow sprang up around him, so bright orcs and humans alike turned away, shielding their eyes. "You are not of this world, not of the Holy Light. You do not belong here! Begone!"

  The Horde warchief grimaced and backed away a step, a hand shielding his eyes. Turalyon took advantage of the moment to crouch again beside Lothar's body.

  "Go with the Light, my friend," he whispered, touching a forefinger to the fallen Champion's shattered forehead, his own tears dripping down to mix with the dead warrior's blood. "You have earned a place among the holy, and the Light welcomes you into its loving embrace." An aura sprang up around the body, glowing a pure white, and he thought the features of his dead friend relaxed slightly, growing calm, even quietly content.

  Then Turalyon rose again, and now he held in one hand the shattered greatsword. "And you, foul creature," he declared, turning toward the dazzled Doomhammer. "You will pay for your crimes upon this world and its peoples!"

  Doomhammer must have recognized the threat in his tone, for the orc leader gripped his hammer with both hands and swung it up, blocking the blow he sensed was coming. But Turalyon had both hands wrapped around the broken sword's hilt and brought the blade down in a blinding flash of light—and the ruined weapon slammed hard into the massive warhammer's black stone head, the impact traveling down the heavy wooden handle and shaking it free of its master's grip. The hammer fell harmlessly to the side. Doomhammer's eyes widened as he realized what had happened, and then he closed them and gave a faint nod, waiting for the rest of the blow to fall.

  But Turalyon had turned the blade at the last second, and struck the orc with the flat instead of the edge. The impact drove Doomhammer to his knees, and then he collapsed alongside Lothar, but Turalyon could see the rise and fall of the warchief's back.

  "You will stand trial for your crimes," he told the unconscious orc, the light building around him. "You will stand in Capital City, in chains" — it was brighter than the brightest day now, and every orc turned away, cowering from the blinding light—"as the leaders of the Alliance decide your fate, and there you will acknowledge your full defeat."

  Then he turned and glanced up, this time at the other orc warriors, who had stood frozen as they had watched their leader's apparent victory con
verted to stunning defeat. "But you will not be so lucky," Turalyon intoned, leveling the shattered sword at them. Light lanced from it and from his hand, his head, his eyes. The black rock around him was blanched white by the power that poured from his body. "You will die here, with the rest of your kind, and this world will be rid of your taint forever!" And with that he leaped forward, the sun—bright blade already in motion. It caught the first orc in the throat before he could even react, and the brute fell, blood spurting from the wound, as Turalyon charged past him toward the other half—blinded Horde warriors.

  That broke the paralysis, and the other orcs and humans finally were able to move again. Uther and the other Silver Hand Paladins had joined the throng during Lothar and Doomhammer's battle and now they ran forward to follow their fellow, auras springing up around them as well as they dove into the gathered Horde. The rest of the Alliance forces followed.

  The battle that followed was surprisingly quick. Many of the orcs had seen Doomhammer's defeat, and their leader's collapse sent them into a panic. Many fled. Others dropped their weapons and surrendered—these were rounded up for imprisonment and, despite his earlier statement, Turalyon found he did not have it in himself to kill helpless prisoners, no matter what they done beforehand. Many did stand and fight, of course, but they were disorganized and dazed and proved little match for the resolute Alliance soldiers.

  "A band of them, perhaps four hundred strong, is fleeing south through the Redridge Mountains," Khadgar reported an hour later, after the combat had ended and the valley and grown quiet save for the rustling of the men, the moans of the wounded, and the growling of the prisoners.

  "Good," Turalyon replied. He was tearing a long strip from his cloak and wound that around his waist as a sash, then stuck Lothar's shattered sword through it. "Form up ranks and pursue them, but not too quickly. Let the unit leaders know. We don't want to catch them."

  "We don't?"

  Turalyon turned and looked at his friend, reminding himself again that for all his talents the mage was no tactician. "Where is this Dark Portal that leads back to the orcs' world?" he asked.

  Khadgar shrugged. "We don't know exactly," he admitted. "Somewhere in the swamplands."

  "And now that the Horde has suffered an undeniable defeat, where will those few survivors go?"

  The old—seeming mage grinned. "Back home."

  "Exactly." Turalyon straightened. "And we will follow them back to this portal, and destroy it once and for all."

  Khadgar nodded and turned to seek the unit leaders, but stopped as Uther approached them.

  "There are no orcs left save those who have given themselves into our custody," the Paladin announced.

  Turalyon nodded. "Good work. A handful escaped, but we will pursue them and destroy or capture them as well."

  Uther studied him. "You have assumed command," he said softly.

  "I suppose I have." Turalyon considered it. He hadn't really thought about it before. He had simply gotten used to giving orders for the army, both at Lothar's request and when the Commander was in the Hinterlands with the rest of the troops. Now he shrugged. "If you'd prefer we can send a gryphon rider to Lordaeron to ask King Terenas and the other kings who should assume command."

  "There's no need," Khadgar said, stepping back to stand beside him. "You were Lothar's lieutenant and sub—commander. You were given charge of half the army when we divided the forces. You are the only choice to command now that he is gone." The mage turned toward Uther with a glare, clearly daring him to contradict the statement.

  But to Turalyon's surprise, Uther nodded. "It is so," he agreed. "You are our commander, and we will follow your lead as we did Lord Lothar's." Then he moved closer and rested a friendly hand on Turalyon's shoulder. "And happy I was to see your faith finally emerge, my brother." The compliment seemed genuine, and Turalyon smiled, pleased to have the older Paladin's approval.

  "And I thank you, Uther the Lightbringer," Turalyon replied, and he saw the older Paladin's eyes widen at the new title. "For so shall you be known henceforth, in honor of the Holy Light you brought us this day." Uther bowed, clearly pleased, then turned without another word and walked back toward the other knights of the Silver Hand, no doubt to tell them their marching orders.

  "I thought he'd argue for taking control," Khadgar said quietly.

  "He doesn't want it," Turalyon replied, still watching Uther. "He wants to lead, yes, but only by example. He's comfortable leading the Order only because they're Paladins as well."

  "And you?" his friend asked bluntly. "Are you comfortable leading us all?"

  Turalyon pondered that, then shrugged. "I don't feel I've earned it, but I know Lothar trusted me with it. And I believe in him and his judgment." He nodded and met Khadgar's gaze. "Now let's be after those orcs."

  It took them a week to reach what Khadgar said were called the Swamp of Sorrows. They could have moved more quickly but Turalyon had cautioned his soldiers not to overtake the orcs yet. They needed to know the location of that portal first. Then they could strike.

  Lothar's death had shocked everyone, but it had also galvanized them. Men who had been weary were now focused, hard, and resolute. They had all taken the loss of their commander personally, and seemed determined to avenge his death. And they all accepted Turalyon as his chosen successor, especially those who had followed him to Quel'Thalas and back.

  Slogging through the marshes was difficult and unpleasant, but other than muttering a little no one complained. Their scouts kept the orcs in sight and then reported back, allowing the Alliance troops to move at a slow pace and still not worry about losing their quarry. The Horde remnant was in general disarray, all the orcs heading the same direction but not marching together, simply jogging or walking at their own paces and with a handful of companions amid the larger group. Turalyon just hoped that remained the case. He assumed the Horde leader, that Doomhammer, had left troops and a lieutenant in charge of the portal itself. If that leader was strong enough he could fuse the defeated orcs back into a solid fighting force, along with whatever warriors he had with him already. Turalyon warned his lieutenants to keep the men alert and not let them get complacent. Assuming this would be an easy fight could get them all killed.

  They spent another week in the swamps before finally reaching an area called the Black Morass. But here even Khadgar was in for a surprise.

  "I don't understand," the mage commented, crouching to study the ground. "This should all be marsh! It should be just like what we've already been through, soggy and filthy and smelly." He tapped the hard red stone before him and frowned. "This is definitely not right."

  "It looks almost igneous," said Brann Bronzebeard, who stood beside him. The dwarves had insisted on accompanying them the rest of the way, and Turalyon had been glad for both their battle prowess and their company. He found he liked the two brothers, with their bluff good cheer and their equal appreciation for a good fight, a good ale, and a fine woman. Brann was certainly the more scholarly of the two, and he and Khadgar had spent several evenings talking about obscure texts while the rest of them discussed less academic subjects. And all the dwarves from Ironforge were experts on rocks and gems, so for Brann to not recognize the rock beneath them was unsettling, to say the least. "But no fire I know could do this," he added, scraping at it with one blunt fingernail. "And certainly not to such a large expanse." For the red stone stretched ahead of them as far as they could see. "I've never seen the like."

  "Unfortunately, I have," Khadgar replied, standing again. "But not on this world." He did not explain further and something in his expression warned the others not to press him.

  Muradin started to ask anyway, but his brother stopped him. "Do ye know what your name means in Dwarven, lad?" Brann asked Khadgar. "It means ‘trust. " The mage nodded. "We trust ye, lad. You'll tell us when you're ready."

  "Well, it's almost certainly tied to the orcs," Turalyon pointed out, "and we'll have an easier time pursuing them across stone t
han we would through more marshland, so I'm not opposed to the change in scenery." The others nodded, though Khadgar still looked thoughtful, and they mounted up again and continued on.

  A few nights later, Khadgar glanced up from the campfire and suddenly announced, "I think we have a problem." The others all turned to listen to the young—old mage. "I have consulted with the other magi and we think we know what's caused the ground to change," he explained. "It's the Dark Portal itself. Its very presence is affecting our world, starting with the lands immediately around it. And I think it's spreading."

  "Why would this portal cause such an alteration?" Uther asked. The Silver Hand leader had never been very comfortable with magi, sharing the common perception that their magic was unholy and possibly even demonic, but he had learned to at least accept and possibly even respect Khadgar during the long war.

  But the mage shook his head. "I'd have to see it to be certain," he replied. "But I'd guess the portal is linking our two worlds, this one and the orcs' homeworld of Draenor, and it's doing more than just forming a bridge. Somehow it's melding the two together, at least right at its entry point."

  "And their world is made of red stone?" Brann guessed.

  "Not entirely," Khadgar answered. "Some time ago I had a vision of Draenor, however, and what I saw of it was a bleak place, with ground much like this. There is little life left there, as if nature itself has been stripped away. I think it may be their magics, which taint the land itself. That taint is spreading through the portal, and every time the orcs use their magics here it grows worse."

  "All the more reason to destroy it, then," Turalyon announced. "And the sooner the better."