Beyond the Dark Portal wow-4

by Aaron Rosenberg

  Muradin thought somberly of young Arthas swing­ing away at a suit of armor, and hoped that the prince would not get a taste of war just yet.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Clouds hung low over Stormwind, brushing the tips of the city's many towers. A chill wind tugged at the guards' cloaks as they huddled at their posts outside Stormwind Keep, shivering. Inside, their commander Turalyon and his advisers were still awake, poring over maps in one of the armories in the keep, now the Alliance command post. The guards had nodded to the beautiful elf who had accompanied their commander and was currently in the room with the other strategists, though anyone with eyes could see the tension between the two.

  They shivered, but paid no real heed to a particularly cold breeze that wafted through the city, danced in through the keep's gate doors, and then drifted up the wide central hallway and veered to the left. Up it swirled, through another corridor and across a small courtyard open to the cloudy night sky.

  A pair of guards stood to either side of the entrance to the royal library. They shivered as they felt the breeze brush up against them, and squinted as the shadows around them seemed to deepen.

  Suddenly a stronger wind sprang up, whisking the shadows away and revealing several figures in their stead. Four of them seemed to be human, at least in size; they all wore heavy hooded cloaks and strange wrappings around limbs and torso, but their eyes glowed a fiery red. The last figure, however, towered over them, and even in the near-dark his skin gleamed green.

  One of the guards inhaled to cry out an alarm as he drew his sword. He never got the chance. The orc stepped forward, already swinging a massive axe. The guard fell in two pieces. His companion was able to raise his shield and block a blow from one of the strange wrapped figures and thrust with his spear. To no avail; another of the intruders caught the spear haft and chopped it in half, then spun and delivered a sweeping blow to the guard's neck just above the shield's edge. The man fell without a sound, his head nearly severed, and the figures stepped over the two twitching corpses, pushed the doors open, and entered the royal library.

  "Be quick," Gorefiend instructed. "We must not be discovered." His death knights nodded, as did Pargath Throatsplitter, the orc who had so quickly dispatched the first guard. Gorefiend had wanted a Bleeding Hol­low warrior with him, since they knew this world bet­ter than any other Horde member, and Pargath had impressed him as one of the smarter and quieter war­riors available.

  All five of them spread out, combing the library for their prize. After several minutes, Pargath cursed. "It's not here!" he whispered.

  "What?" Gorefiend joined the warrior next to an empty glass case. 'Are you sure?"

  In response Pargath gestured at the case, and at a small tan card stuck in one corner. Gorefiend had ac­cess to his host body's memories and skills, and after a second of concentration he could make out the writ­ing: Book of Medivh. Not to be opened without express per­mission from the king or from the Alliance commander.

  "It was here," Gorefiend mused, studying the case's deep velvet interior, which had clearly been weighed down by something large, heavy, and rectangular. "But where is it now?"

  "Over here," one of his death knights called softly, and Gorefiend hurried toward him, Pargath and the other two death knights right behind him. "It looks as though someone else was thinking along the same lines we were." The death knight pointed at a small reading alcove — and the body within it. The corpse wore the armor of an Alliance guard, a dagger hilt pro­truding from the narrow space between the helm and breastplate.

  'Alterac," Pargath whispered, staring down at the dead man. "That insignia, there." Pargath pointed to the markings on the dagger hilt. "That's the Alterac crest."

  Gorefiend's own host memories confirmed it. "So Alterac has the book,'" he mused. Despite his betrayal during the previous war, Lord Perenolde still ruled Alterac, at least for now. And the book was valuable to the Alliance — Alterac could use it as a bargaining chip. Yes, it did make sense.

  "But why leave behind such an obvious clue?" he wondered aloud. "That's a careless assassin.''

  "Perhaps he was sending a message," Pargath sug­gested. "Showing the Alliance that Alterac and its king are still in the game. Or," and he grinned, his tusks showing, "maybe he was just a careless assassin."

  "Well, we shall not be so careless," Gorefiend said. "We need this book — and so we must go to Alterac. Take the dagger — I'd just as soon the Alliance didn't have the same clue we did. The corpse is fresh — let the guards think all three were slain by the same hand, when they come across them on the morrow."

  Pargath obediently knelt and tugged free the deadly weapon. "To Alterac then?"

  "Yes… but not just yet. We need to keep to our original plan as much as possible. We're still going to Blackrock Mountain. We need Rend, Maim, and the red dragons they control."

  Pargath nodded. "Blackrock is on the way to Al­terac," he pointed out.

  "Exactly." Gorefiend grinned. "And with a red dragon at our disposal we could be there and back in hours, and still return to the portal ahead of schedule." He nodded. "But first we must leave here as quietly as we came." He beckoned them to him. The shadows crept closer, the temperature in the library dropping. A moment later, a chill wind slipped through the doors, past the cooling bodies and the pools of blood around them, back down the corridor, and out of the keep, where it quickly escaped into the night.

  A day later, Gorefiend and his band reached Blackrock Mountain. Their small group had grown. He had con­tacted Gaz Soulripper, and his fellow death knight had sent Fenris Wolfbrother of the Thunderlord clan, Tagar Spinebreaker of the Bonechewer clan, and several of each's finest warriors. The orcs had met up with Gorefiend and the others at the base of the mountain range as commanded. Their expanded group was as large a force as Gorefiend felt they could assemble without being spotted by the Alliance; he hoped it was large enough to get the attention of the sons of Blackhand. They climbed openly up the mountain, making sure the orc sentries hidden nearby could see them clearly. Gorefiend did not want even the suggestion that they might be attacking or sneaking in. Finally they reached the top, where rocks had split open and magma flowed through natural channels like a glowing red river be­neath graceful bridges. A massive stone keep stood against the spire itself, carved from the same glossy black rock which gave this place its name, and Gorefiend's lips curled in wry memory. This had been where Doomhammer had established his base, and where the Horde warchief had introduced Gorefiend and the other death knights to the assembled clans. And it was below here, in the valley at the mountain's feet, where Doomhammer had fought the Alliance leader Lothar and won, only to then be bested by Lothar's second, Turalyon. Defeat and victories both had their ghosts here. He did not waste much time recollecting; he had the present to think of, and his own advancement.

  With a gesture he instructed his group to halt at the entrance. Sure enough, a moment later four armed guards, large and powerful, appeared, looking more than eager to strike.

  "We come to speak with the sons of Blackhand. Tell them Teron Gorefiend has news and a proposal for them." He stepped forward and let the hood fall from his face. The guards paled slightly. One of them whis­pered something to another. The second orc listened, bowed, and disappeared into the darkness. He returned a few moments later. The commander listened, then turned to Gorefiend and his group.

  "Stay close," he warned, and led them into the keep himself. Gorefiend followed as they went ever deeper into the heart of the mountain, his glowing red eyes taking everything in. The keep was clearly in heavy use, and they saw several other orcs marching past here or there. All stopped to study them as they passed, ob­viously surprised to see a death knight here on Blackrock Spire, but none of them dared say anything.

  Finally they reached the wide chamber Gorefiend remembered as Doomhammer's throne room and war council. The figure who now lounged in the heavy black chair carved from the mountain rock was shorter than Doomhammer, more brutish
in appearance, with heavier features and an unkempt mane of brown hair. Medals and bones dangled from his hair, nose, ears, and brow, and his armor was heavily adorned, as was his massive, razor-sharp sword.

  "Rend," Gorefiend said as he stopped just beyond the sword's reach.

  "Gorefiend," Rend Blackhand, co-chieftain of the Blackrock clan, replied. His ugly face split in a grin that made him look even uglier. He shifted his position, flinging a leg over the arm of the throne. "Well, well, well. What brings you here, dead man?"

  "Yeah," came a higher-pitched voice. Gorefiends eyes shifted to where Rend's brother, Maim, crouched beside and just a little behind the throne, half-hidden in the shadows. "You got some nerve coming all the way in to see us."

  "The Dark Portal has been restored," Gorefiend began, but Rend waved that away with a snort.

  "I saw it in my dreams," the orc leader replied. "I knew it had to be one of you warlocks causing it." A frown crossed his broad face. "What about it?"

  Gorefiend frowned. This conversation was not going as he'd hoped. "Ner'zhul leads the Horde now," he said. "I have been sent to bring you back into the fold, you and your Blackrock clan. We need the Dragonmaw clan as well, and the red dragons they command."

  Rend glanced over at Maim, and the two brothers laughed together. "After two years where nothing hap­pens, you come marching back up here, into my keep, a handful of fresh warriors trotting behind you, and you expect me to get all excited about kneeling before a withered old shaman? And by the way, I should also hand over not only my own warriors but my dragons as well?" He laughed again, though his eyes blazed with fury. "Not damn likely!"

  "You must," Gorefiend insisted. "We need your strength, and your dragons, to carry out our plan!"

  "I don't care what you need," Rend replied coldly. He rose, and Gorefiend realized that despite his childish at­titude. Rend Blackhand was very dangerous. "That's your problem, not mine. I don't give a damn about whatever old Ner'zhul might be planning. Where was he when we fought the Alliance? I was here. Where was he when Doomhammer fell? I was here!"

  "Me too," echoed Maim.

  "Where was he when the portal was destroyed and we got stuck here?" Rend continued. "Where was he when we were hunted for two long years, and slowly rebuilt our forces with whatever orcs had survived and could make their way to us? I'll tell you where — he was safe and snug on Draenor, not lifting a finger to help!" Rend snatched up his sword and slammed it down on the throne's arm so hard the stone splintered. Maim jumped, then laughed with an echo of mania in his voice.

  "But I was here! I pulled these orcs back together! I rebuilt the Horde, not over on Draenor but here on Azeroth, right beneath the Alliance's nose! I am warchief now, and no used-up old shaman is going to take that away from me!"

  Gorefiend longed to smear the boy into paste, but refrained. "Please," he said through clenched teeth. “Please, I ask you to reconsider. Without your aid, Nerzhul will—"

  "—fail," Rend finished bluntly Maim looked gleeful. "He's got no experience with real war. He's got no head for tactics, no understanding of combat, and no real leadership skills. The Alliance will crush his little pretend Horde, and then"—he grinned—"I will pick up the pieces. We will gather all the survivors to us, Maim and I, just as we have been doing all along, since the last war ended."

  Maim crept closer, and Rend let his hand fall on his brother's head as he might a pet dog's. "And with the Horde, the real Horde, even larger, and with the dragons at our side and me in command, we're going to sweep across the face of Azeroth." Rend grinned directly at Gorefiend. “And then, dead man, you'll serve me."

  Behind Gorefiend, Tagar stiffened. "You coward!" he howled at Rend. "Traitorous dog, I'll cut you down like the cur you are, and take your throne for myself! Then your people will follow my orders and take their place in the Horde once more!"

  "Oh yeah?" Rend replied lazily "You want to attack me now?" His grin widened, and Gorefiend turned to rest a hand on Tagar's shoulder.

  "He has guards nearby — many of them," he warned the Bonechewer chieftain quietly. "If you attack him they'll kill you, and then we're short one chieftain." He shook his head. "Now is not the time."

  Tagar grumbled but stepped back a pace. Rend looked disappointed.

  "One final time — will you join us?" Gorefiend asked Rend softly.

  "Oh, wait, let me think — no," Rend retorted, smirk­ing. Maim chuckled.

  "Very well." Gorefiend bowed. "Then there is noth­ing more to say."

  Rend laughed. "Go on," he instructed. "I can't wait to get news of your gory destruction." He and his brother laughed again, and the sound echoed through the chamber and into the halls and corridors beyond as Gorefiend led his dispirited group out of the keep and back down from the spire itself.

  The sun had already set and the sky was fading from dusk to true dark. Gorefiend glared at the dancing or­ange and yellow campfire. Things had not gone accord­ing to plan, and he was deep in thought, pondering his next move. The others were wisely silent, and the only sound was the crackle of the flames and the occasional soft grunt of quiet conversation. A sudden noise in the darkness made them all leap to their feet, the tension strung taut as a bow.

  "Human! Kill him!" came the cry from the orc sent to keep watch. The death knights stayed silent, but the orcs roared, happy to have a target for their frustration. Gorefiend could see the human now, wandering boldly up to their very encampment. Tagar charged him, bringing down his club in a blow that would crush the human's fragile skull.

  What happened next stunned them all. Gorefiend watched as the human reached upward, almost lan­guidly, caught the club, and twisted it from the orcs grasp. Tagar gaped at him, then he and the others pre­pared to lunge again.

  The human cried, "Hold!"

  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 facade. "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."

  Go
refiend 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.