Beyond the Dark Portal wow-4

by Aaron Rosenberg

  The elf was right. Not three minutes later a cry went up outside: "We've got one!"

  The massive gates were again opened. A pair of Turalyon's men rode through, half-dragging an uncon­scious orc between them. They dumped the body on the ground at their general's feet. Blood covered its bare green head, and its eyes were closed. It didn't stir as it hit the ground.

  "One orc, still alive, sir!" one of the two men re­ported. "He took a good hit to his head, but he’ll live. For a while at least." Turalyon nodded, dismissing them. Both men saluted before wheeling their horses about and charging back out the gate, diving once more into the fray.

  "Let's see what we have here," Danath muttered. He bound the orc’s hands and feet with heavy rope, then splashed water on the monster's face. It awoke with a start, grimacing, and then frowned and started to growl as it noticed the restraints.

  "Why are you attacking us now?" Danath de­manded, leaning down over the orc. "Why hit Nethergarde when you aren't at full strength?"

  "I show you strength!" the orc warrior roared, strug­gling against his bonds. But they held fast.

  "I don't think you quite understand," Danath said slowly, drawing his dagger and idly waving it mere inches from the orc’s face. "I asked you a question. You'd best answer it. Why attack Nethergarde now? Why not wait until the entire Horde is here?"

  Blood and spittle spattered Danath's face. He jerked back, surprised, then slowly wiped the spit off. "I'm tired of playing with you," he growled, and leaned for­ward with the dagger.

  "Wait!" Turalyon ordered. He deeply disapproved of torture, and he was beginning to think that even if he permitted Danath to continue, the orc would say noth­ing of use — orcs had a high tolerance for pain — and chances were he'd pass out, or die, before speaking. "There might be another way to find out."

  Danath stayed his hand. He felt Alleria's eyes on him, angry, wanting to see the creature hurt. But that would solve nothing.

  Turalyon closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, reaching for the quiet, still pool deep inside him, the center where no matter what was raging in his head or heart, he was at peace. From that place of calmness, he asked for aid, for the Light. He felt a tingling along his skin as the Light responded, granting him its power and its unspeakable grace. He heard gasps from his friends and a frightened cry from the prisoner, and inhaled deeply, opening his eyes to see the familiar shimmering along his hands, his arms. Danath and Khadgar stared at him, their eyes wide in shock. And as for the orc, it was a huddled ball of green at his feet, whimpering incoherently. When he spoke, Turalyon's voice was completely calm and controlled. There was no place here for hate or the heat of anger. Not when one stood fully in the Light.

  "Now, by the Holy Light, you will answer our ques­tions and do so truly," Turalyon intoned, reaching out and resting his palm against the orc’s forehead. There was a sudden, blinding flash of light. He felt a spark leap from flesh to flesh. The orc shrieked, and when Turalyon removed his hand there was a dark handprint there, as if it had been burned in. The orc shivered and groveled, weeping. Turalyon hoped he had not scared it senseless.

  "Why attack now?" he asked yet again.

  "To — to distract you," it sobbed. "From the thefts." It had been stubbornly silent before; now it apparently couldn't speak fast enough. "Ner'zhul needs things. Ar­tifacts. He ordered us, attack the keep. Alliance stay busy here, and not see anything else."

  Khadgar was stroking his full beard. He'd recovered faster than Danath, who was still staring at the young paladin. Turalyon risked a glance up at Alleria to find her, too, looking at him with an expression of stunned disbelief. When their eyes met, she colored slightly and looked away.

  "A simple plan, but simple plans are often the best," Khadgar offered. "What artifacts, though? And why would he need any such thing from our world and not from his own?"

  The orc shook his head, trembling. "He doesn't know," Turalyon said. "He'd tell us if he knew." With the Light upon him so, the orc could not lie.

  The gates creaked open just enough for two elves to squeeze through before it shut again. Turalyon glanced up as they approached him, his eyes narrowing as he realized they both looked exhausted. "What news?"

  "Stormwind, sir," one of the elves replied. "Some­one broke into the royal library. The guards found the bodies of the two men stationed outside the door and the one inside. Looks like one died by an orc axe, sir."

  "Orcs? In the royal library?" Turalyon whirled to stare at Khadgar, then at the orc, who cringed away. “Artifacts… ," he murmured, putting the pieces together.

  "The perfect distraction," Khadgar was forced to admit. "Damn it. I'd say that simple plan worked very well indeed. We were busy here fighting the orcs, and someone made off with—" He turned to the elves. "What exactly did someone make off with, if anything?"

  Now the elven scouts looked even less happy "Un­fortunately, you are right. Lord Wizard — one thing was indeed missing."

  "And that was?" Turalyon prompted.

  The elf cleared his throat. "The, uh… the Book of Medivh."

  "By the Light," Turalyon whispered, feeling a knot form in the pit of his stomach. The Book of Medivh? The spellbook of the greatest mage in all the world, the man who had helped the orcs create the original portal? The book containing all the brilliant wizard's many secrets? In the hands of the orcs?

  Beside him Khadgar seemed stricken as well. "Tura… I need that book! To close the portal!"

  "What?" Turalyon cried.

  "Medivh and Gul'dan created the thing. That spellbook could tell me how to close it! Not only that — if the orcs have it, they can use it against us in any num­ber of ways. This is bad. This is very, very bad."

  Turalyon shook his head, reaching for the calm place inside himself. "I understand. But we can't worry about it right now — we've got orcs outside, and distraction or not, they're still a great danger. Our job is to protect this keep, and prevent them from spreading past it. Once that's done, then… well, we'll go from there."

  He eyed his friends, who nodded slowly. He glanced up at Alleria, thinking he saw a hint of approval glim­mer in her green eyes before she again lifted her bow to resume firing.

  "You're right, General," Khadgar said, inclining his head. "We have a keep to defend. We can’t solve a puz­zle if we're not alive to do so."

  Turalyon gave a weary, worried grin, climbed back atop his mount, and rode again into the maelstrom that was battle.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “We’ll divide into two groups," Gorefiend instructed Fenris, Tagar, and his death knights. Around them was the bustle of a camp being broken as swiftly as possible. "I need—"

  He glanced up as the sounds stilled abruptly. Deathwing had rejoined them, looking as perfectly human as he had before. He caught Gorefiend's eye.

  "What, did you think I would not return?"

  "No, of course I did."

  Something about how he said it obviously displeased the great dragon, whose black brows drew together. Gorefiend realized the words could be interpreted as ar­rogance and hastened to add, "I completely trust your word, Lord Deathwing."

  The dragon looked mollified. Gorefiend continued, "We need to travel to Alterac, and from there to Dalaran. May we ask you for the aid of your children in this?"

  "You may. I will summon them now." Deathwing tilted back his head, his mouth opening far wider than any true human's could, and uttered a strange rippling cry that teased at the ears, creating phantoms of other sounds and generating a cool breeze that reeked of old death. Some of the orcs shrank back, and even Gorefiend was hard put to keep his face calm as the earth it­self shook and rumbled beneath his feet, as if replying directly to the black dragonlord.

  Finally, Deathwing closed his mouth and his face as­sumed its normal proportions. "There we are," he said, grinning in obvious delight at the discomfiture of both orc and death knight. "They will come."

  "Thank you." Gorefiend bowed. He turned toward the two orc ch
ieftains. He was not looking forward to what he had to ask of them, and feared they might balk; but it had to be done. "Your task will be challeng­ing, but vital. I must ask you to go to the Tomb of Sargeras."

  Tagar growled uneasily, and even the sturdier Fenris looked upset. "You send us to our deaths then!" Fenris snapped.

  "Not at all. There is an artifact there that Ner'zhul requires. I will send along Ragnok to aid you and ex­plain what—"

  "Gul'dan — the powerful Gul'dan died there!" Fen­ris interrupted. "We have heard the stories — of how Gul'dan raised it from the ocean bed, only to be at­tacked by the monstrous things guarding that horrible place. We have heard how only a few escaped and that most died there, screaming in pain… . Evil lives in that darkness, Gorefiend!"

  The death knight spared only a moment to be amused at the comment; he well knew that the hu­mans on this world thought the orcs themselves mon­strous, evil things.

  "Do you think I would send you and one of my own knights if I believed you would not be successful?" They had no answer for that and exchanged uneasy glances. Gorefiend graced them with his death-rictus smile. "That's better. As I was saying, you must retrieve a certain artifact. Ragnok will explain everything. Once you've found it, return to the Dark Portal as soon as possible and we will meet you there. The Warsong clan won't be able to keep the Alliance distracted and busy forever."

  Both chieftains nodded, looking more confident. Gorefiend regarded them for a moment. Tagar was a powerful fighter, but he had no subtlety and little intel­ligence. Fenris, however, was clever and subtle enough for both of them, and his bearing told Gorefiend he would keep the young Bonechewer chieftain in line. Satisfied, Gorefiend turned to the dragonlord. "Great Deathwing — can you bear them to the tomb?"

  The dragon-man nodded. "We know this island of which you speak," he said. “And here are my children — enough to accommodate both groups, I think."

  Even as the words left Deathwing's lips, Gorefiend heard a sharp flurry of noise, as if a heavy rain were striking, its pellets slashing through the air and into the rock and earth all around. Looking up, Gorefiend did see dark streaks against the stars, but they were most certainly not raindrops. Beneath his feet, he felt the earth rumble again. Suddenly he saw specks of bright orange as the streaks increased in size, swelling and be­coming diamond-shaped. His eyes widened as he real­ized the orange glows he had seen was fiery magma in the beasts' huge jaws, and the increasingly loud noise was the beating of gigantic wings.

  Gorefiend watched, awestruck, as the dragons swooped down. The very earth shook as the mighty creatures landed, liquid fire dripping from their mouths to steam, glowing and sullen, on the earth. They were beautiful in their deadliness. Their scales gleamed in the starlight, a glossy black like a midnight pool, and their claws seemed like polished iron as they perched on the earth or on giant boulders, seeming to Gorefiend's eyes a living, lethal extension of the earth upon which they stood. When they had all come to ground, the dragons folded their great leathery wings and watched the orcs closely, their ebony eyes staring, their heads swiveling and tails flicking slightly. Gorefiend was reminded of a cat analyzing its prey before it casu­ally dispatched it, and shivered slightly.

  "Here are my children," Deathwing announced, the pride evident in his voice. "The finest of all the crea­tures of Azeroth!" He pointed to a particularly large dragon nearby, two great horns jutting up from its brow. "Sabellian," Deathwing announced, and the dragon lowered its head as its name was announced, "is my lieutenant in all things. He and a few companions will bear your orcs to the island you spoke of. And as for your jaunt to Alterac, I'll take you there myself."

  "I am honored," Goreflend started to say but Deathwing silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand. His eyes glittered like banked coals as he continued, 'Don't get too full of yourself, death knight. I do not do it to show you respect, but to ensure success. My plans will come to naught if you fail. I suggest you don't, not if you wish to remain alive — well, at least as alive as you are now."

  Deathwing smirked slightly. Then he began to laugh, the sound rising from an ordinary human laugh to mutate into something much darker and much more frightening. He threw his head back and lifted his arms, the gesture stirring up a wind that buffeted Gorefiend and the others against the rocks behind them. What was he doing? Goreflend wondered for a frantic moment if this whole thing had been some sort of dreadful joke, and that at last Deathwing had tired of the game. The flames of their dying campfires flickered and swayed in the sudden gust, casting grotesque danc­ing shadows. Behind the maniacally laughing man, Deathwing's own shadow swelled and grew, twisting as if it were a living thing itself, changing form as it rose behind him, vast wings spreading out across the mountain range, engulfing all his dragons and much of the surrounding land as well. For a third time that night, the earth trembled, and this time many of the orcs fell hard to the ground. Sudden fissures split open, scalding steam rippling the space above them, red-orange magma in their depths echoing the liquid flame that dripped from the dragons' mouths.

  Even as his shadow rose and took on more detail, Deathwings human body contorted. Its edges grew in­distinct, as if it were being absorbed into the shadows behind him. Only his eyes remained clear, growing longer and more slanted, taking on a reddish cast from the reflected glow of the flames but then outshining those thin fires.

  Still the shadow grew, as did the shifting, blurring body that cast it. It seemed to have its own substance now, and was somehow pushing away from the rocks. The body elongated and increased in bulk, changing rapidly to match its shadow. A black dragon, yes, but more — the black dragon, the mightiest, most powerful, most dangerous of them all; the father of the flight.

  Gorefiend thought he would be the most perfect specimen of his kind, but as the shape before him grew more distinct, the death knight realized that Deathwing lacked the dark beauty of his children. Giant plates made of gleaming metal ran along the dragon's spine from the tail to the back of the long narrow head. Be­neath them Gorefiend caught glimpses of red and gold and white in radiating lines, as if molten fire were somehow… breaking through. As if the metallic plates fastened onto Deathwing's spine were physically hold­ing him together. The effect was disjointed, disharmo­nious, and suddenly Gorefiend realized why Deathwing was so meticulous about his appearance in human form — his dragon form was flawed.

  Red eyes blazed now from a reptilian face. Deathwing spread his wings wide, their great leathery sur­faces as dark as a starless sky and as wrinkled as an old crone. Power pulsated from the dragon in waves, like heat from a raging fire.

  "Come, little death knight, if you dare," Deathwing commanded, his voice now a deep rumble. He lowered his head almost to the ground, and Gorefiend actually found himself frozen in place for a moment before he forced his body to obey. Trembling, he clambered up onto the dragon where his neck met his heavily ar­mored shoulders. Fortunately, the unnatural metal plates provided easy handholds. The others emulated him, and soon all Gorefiend's band were astride the dragons.

  With no warning, Deathwing launched himself into the air with a powerful kick and a downward sweep of his wings, lifting them up into the sky by sheer muscle alone. Gorefiend clung tightly as the ground fell away, and then Deathwing's wings beat down and back, and again, and they were soaring, the air supporting them as if the massive dragon were as light as a stray leaf. Sabellian and his chosen followers split off, racing forward and disappearing into the night, while Deathwing banked to the right, that wing dipping so low Gorefiend thought it might scrape the ground, and headed for Alterac.

  Aiden Perenolde, king of Alterac and prisoner in his own palace, awoke with a start. He had been dreaming, and still remembered vague flashes of something large and dark and reptilian looming above him and… laughing? Perhaps, he thought bitterly, it was a metaphor for his fate.

  He rubbed his face, chasing away the nightmare, but sleep would not return. Muttering, Perenolde rose from his bed.
Perhaps some wine would help. He poured himself a glass of the dark red liquid — red as blood, he mused — and sipped it slowly, thinking about the choices that had led him here.

  It had seemed so easy at the time. So wise, so right. The orcs were going to destroy everything in their path. So he'd negotiated with them to save his people. He frowned into his glass as he remembered his con­versation with Orgrim Doomhammer. It was going to work just fine — except somehow it hadn't. His so-called "treachery" had been discovered, and the orcs had failed to do the one thing they apparently excelled at — destroy things. Stupid great green oafs.

  The doors to his bedchamber suddenly burst open. Perenolde started at the noise, spilling the wine all over his sleeping clothes, as several large figures charged in.

  For an instant he simply gaped, caught up in the sensa­tion that he was still in a reverie as the great green oafs he'd just been brooding about charged into his private chambers. Things got even more surreal as the orcs — what were orcs doing in his palace?—seized him and shoved him to the door. Recovering his wits slightly, Perenolde tried to twist away. Without breaking stride, one of them hoisted the king over his shoulder like a sack of grain and they continued. They stalked through the palace, past the bodies of Perenolde's guards, and out the front doors. Then the orcs set Perenolde on his feet again.

  "No! Please, I—" His cries died in his throat. A vast creature, large as the palace itself, loomed above him, a mass of black scales and gleaming plates and leathery wings. The long head, easily as big as he was, swiveled to study him, the red eyes glowing.

  "King Perenolde." The dry voice did not seem to em­anate from the dragon's long fang-filled mouth, and with a start Perenolde realized the creature was not alone. Someone sat astride its neck, up against its shoul­ders. Or perhaps something, Perenolde corrected him­self, noting the riders glowing eyes, hooded cloak, and strange wrapped limbs. Hadn't he heard of such crea­tures during the Second War? As agents of the Horde?