She did not pull away. Instead she reached to touch his face.
"Turalyon," she whispered, and then in her native tongue, "Vendel'o eranu."
He cupped her face in his hands in turn, feeling the delicate hones of her cheek, realizing that for all her skill and energy and fire, she was fragile. She'd never let him see her fragility before. Water rolled down her cheek, and for a moment, he thought she wept. He realized an instant later that it was only a drop of rain from her sodden hair. Slowly, tentatively, he bent to kiss her. She responded at once, passionately, wrapping her arms around his neck. Turalyon felt dizzy as he drew back and she whispered, "Cold, so cold.”
He picked her up in his arms, astounded at how light she was to bear, placed her on the cot, and drew the furs about them both.
And they were warm.
Turalyon rubbed at his strained, tired eyes, blinking back what he insisted on thinking of as tears of exhaustion.
After their single night together, she had been gone the next morning. He'd emerged from his tent to news that shocked him to the core. Alleria and her rangers, of course, had returned from their scouting mission; he learned that gray morning, his eyes widening with compassion and pain, that the Horde had cut a dreadful swath through Quel'Thalas. And that Alleria had personally lost no fewer than eighteen kin of various degrees of closeness — cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews.
And among the dead was her younger brother.
He'd rushed to her, but when his hand closed on her shoulder, she'd wrenched away. He'd tried to talk to her, but she'd brushed any words aside. It was as if they had never been lovers … as if they'd never even been friends. Turalyon felt something break inside him at that moment, something he'd since pushed aside and let scar over, because he was a general, he was a leader, and he could not afford to indulge his personal pain.
But when he'd seen her that day in Stormwind, soaked again to the bone, he'd thought — he'd hoped… well, he'd been a fool to hope. But a fool he would be, then, to the rest of his days. For despite everything, Turalyon knew he would always love Alleria Windrunner, and hold fast to their one night together as the brightest and most beautiful of his whole brief life.
They come.
Rexxar's voice was deep and calm. Grom looked to where the half-ogre pointed and nodded.
"So they do," he said, and gripped Gorehowl as his eyes brightened in anticipation of the slaughter to come. It was no token force that was left behind as the rest of the clans departed Azeroth. The Alliance would face fearsome opponents this day.
His glowing red eyes narrowed as he saw the numbers flooding across the dead land. They had come in force indeed. Where was the leader, the one who had left his men to die to ride for a warning? Grom particularly ached to kill him.
Beside his master, Haratha whuffed in anticipation. Rexxar chuckled at his pet wolf.
"Come, little Alliance," murmured Grom. "Gorehowl is thirsty."
Turalyon reined in his horse as his group cleared the ring of hills that encircled a small basin and beheld the portal. If the orcs were indeed retreating, there were still plenty of them left behind. It was not going to be an easy canter to the portal. They'd have to fight their way through that ominous line of green-skinned beings and the huge, towering, pale things that fought alongside them.
Two warriors in particular drew his attention. Turalyon was not even entirely certain one of them was an orc. He resembled one, but his skin was yellowish-brown, not green, and he towered over the others. His build, too, seemed somehow different. Beside him stood a black wolf that Turalyon suspected was as deadly and focused as his master. A powerful warrior, yes, but not the leader.
There. That one. Larger than most, with a thick mane of black hair pulled into a topknot, a black jaw, glowing red eyes, and heavy bracers decorated with strange symbols, he stared boldly up at the superior numbers of Alliance warriors.
Their eyes met. Even as Turalyon watched, the orc leader lifted a mammoth axe in a salute.
'Were ready for you this time, you bastards," Danath muttered. His eyes were bright and he was more than eager for battle. As was every soldier present.
"Sons of Lothar! Attack!" Turalyon cried. His troops let out a yell of their own and streamed down from all sides. The battle was on.
It was a simple plan — kill as many orcs as possible while heading straight for the portal. Turalyon fought fiercely, swinging his hammer left and right and beating back the snarling foes that surged up to block his path. Close by him fought Alleria, seemingly as grimly joyful in the slaughter as ever. Some sixth sense prickled at him and he looked up just in time to see the elven ranger bringing a sword down on one hapless orc while another loomed up behind her, lifting a brutal-looking club. She didn't seem to notice the threat — her face was alight with harsh glee as she pulled her sword free from the green corpse. She was too focused, too intent on her revenge —
“Alleria!" Turalyon cried, clapping heels to his warhorse and galloping toward her. As if in slow motion, Alleria raised her golden head, her eyes widening, her arm lifting the bloody sword to block the blow, but she was too slow, too slow, and he would never get there in time —
The prayer left his lips and he thrust his hands forward. White light shot forward and struck the orc square in the chest. He arched backward, the club tumbling helplessly from his grasp as he crumpled to the earth. For the briefest of instants, Turalyon's gaze locked with Alleria's, then she was on to the next orc, and he too had turned back to the fray.
His eye fell upon the orc leader he'd spotted earlier. He seemed to dance through the Alliance forces. The heavy axe in his hand shrieked as it cut air and flesh alike, and the sound rose above the screams and groans of his many victims. He paused now and then to shout and point.
But powerful though he was, he and his warriors were outnumbered, and by the look on his face he knew it. The wave of Alliance kept moving inexorably forward, to the portal. The orc seemed to make a decision. He turned and shouted something to a cloaked figure next to the portal itself, and the figure nodded. Then the leader bellowed something else, and all across the valley his orcs hastened to obey, backing away from the Alliance and retreating slowly but surely toward the waiting portal.
Another movement caught Turalyon's eye. A cloaked figure reached down and pulled something from beside the portal's rightmost pillar. Turalyon couldn't make out what it was, but it was metal and it glinted in the light. Something about the way he fiddled with it made Turalyon nervous and for some reason, his mind went back to his conversation with the gnome Mekkatorque.
How safe will it be?
…I'm willing to bet it will eventually be as safe as the safest gnomish creation ever…
The orcs were suddenly trying to get through, whereas before they had fought. Khadgar had confirmed that they'd had the artifacts they needed and they were likely ready to —
"Damn it!" Turalyon cried. He hoped he was wrong. He looked over the sea of fighting men and orcs and saw Khadgar and another group of magi. He rode toward them, gasping out what he'd seen.
Khadgar frowned as he listened. "If I were them, I'd head for home too — but first I'd destroy the portal behind me so no one here could interfere."
"My thoughts too. I think it's something mechanical — like something the gnomes would make."
"Or the goblins," said Khadgar. Both men knew that, unlike the gnomes, who were firmly on the Alliance side, the recently encountered goblins happily sold their mechanical gizmos to both sides. "We destroyed the last portal. They can certainly destroy this one. And without Medivh's book and Guldan's skull, I doubt I could reopen it."
"Then let's go. I’ll hold them off," Turalyon said, already wheeling his horse to charge the portal. Khadgar was right behind him. Turalyon battered away at the orcs, cutting a path through them like a man possessed. Khadgar bore down on the portal and the figure adjusting something beside it. Leaning over in his saddle, Khadgar slashed at
the figure, who turned at the last second, though not fast enough to avoid a blow to the neck. It wasn't a strong enough blow to kill him at once, but the cloaked figure grunted in pain and dropped the device, his hands flying to his neck.
Swinging down from his horse, Khadgar ran over and grabbed up the strange machine. It was the size of a small shield, definitely mechanical… and it was making an odd ticking sound. He analyzed it quickly, but the construction was too alien. There was no way he could stop it. Whatever it had been intended to do, it was going to do it soon. Grunting, the mage lifted the package and threw it as far as he could, augmenting his physical strength with magic so that it arced out over the valley and looked like it might even glance off the cliff walls along that side.
The explosion rocked the entire valley.
Grom swore, ducking and covering his head, feeling stings along his back and shoulders where he had been peppered with small fragments of shattered rock. He looked up, rage burning inside him, and strode with dreadful purpose to the warlock. Kra'kul looked as shocked as Grom felt and cowered as Grom's fist descended.
"Traitor! You would kill us!"
"No! No, I swear, I was told it was a shield, a shield to protect us! I didn't know!"
Red swam before Grom's eyes as he lifted the cringing warlock with one hand and shook him. How he wanted to crush the orc's windpipe, to rip his head off and throw it as the elderly human had thrown the device that Grom had been told would protect them but instead had nearly killed them.
'Who told you this? Where is he, that I may tear his heart out!" Roughly he shook the warlock, curbing his bloodlust with great effort.
"I don't know — Malkor was sent to do it — he told me it was a shield—"
Cursing, Grom hurled the worthless wretch away and turned back to the fight.
Grom had been told the device was a shield, so that at the last moment, the Warsong clan could safely escape. He had been lied to. Someone in a position of power — Gorefiend? Ner'zhul?—had intended that the warriors left behind would not escape with their lives.
Grom vowed to survive this battle, unlikely as it seemed, so that someone would pay.
The explosion had rattled his people. The Alliance had recovered more quickly than the orcs, and Grom saw; furious and helpless, that they were being herded like beasts to the southwest. Yet he could do nothing about it. One group came from one side, a second blocked off the exit from another, forcing the orcs back and into a narrow valley mouth, away from the portal. Away from home.
"So be it," he growled. The Alliance might have this victory, but it would cost them dearly. He threw his head back, opened his jaw wide, and let forth a scream that froze two Alliance warriors in mid-swing. "Fight, my Warsong, fight like the orcs you are! Let your blood sing with battle lust! Tear them to pieces! For the Horde!"
* * *
"Someone has to stay here and watch this crew," Turalyon said, reining in beside Alleria and Khadgar and waiting for Kurdran to circle low enough to hear the conversation. "I'll station some men at the mouth of this valley to keep them from escaping again. Everyone else—"
He fell silent. Khadgar didn't envy him. No one really wanted to go through the Dark Portal — although he had to admit, a small part of him, the part that had led to him become a mage in the first place, was very curious about what lay beyond it.
"Well,” Turalyon said. "We know what we need to do. Each of you, tell your units one more time that this is a volunteer expedition. I'll not force any soldier to cross worlds if he does not wish to."
Danath nodded and wheeled his mount away, bellowing orders. Alleria turned back to her rangers, and spoke softly to them in their musical language. Khadgar gave Turalyon a reassuring smile, but the paladin didn't return it. Quietly he said to Khadgar, "Alleria was almost killed today. I was barely able to save her."
"Turalyon," Khadgar said, equally quietly, "she's a trained warrior. She can outfight both of us, probably. You know that."
"That's not what I'm worried about. I know she can handle herself, normally. But… she gets careless. She gets—" His voice faltered, and Khadgar had to look away from the pain on the youth's face.
“She puts killing orcs before her own safety," Khadgar said. "She takes undue risks.” Turalyon nodded miserably. "Well, now we take the fight to them, Turalyon. It could be good for her. For both of you."
Turalyon flushed slightly, but didn't answer. His eyes were on his troops now, and he guided his horse so that he was among them.
"Sons of Lothar!" he cried. "We have faced battle before. We have faced loss, and defeat, and known victory. Now we face the unknown." He caught Khadgar's eye and smiled slightly. "We take the fight to them. And we stop them — so they never trouble us, or other innocent worlds, ever again. For the Alliance! For the Light!"
He lifted his hammer and a cheer rose up as the hammer began to glow with a sharp, clear white radiance. Khadgar nodded to himself. This was what both he and Anduin Lothar had sensed in Turalyon when they had first met him. It seemed a lifetime ago, now. Both the Alliance commander and the mage had known even then that this priest-turned-holy warrior would rise to the challenge. Would blend his almost innocent and inherent decency with a fierce determination to protect his people. Would stand now, at the head of an army, rallying them to cross into a completely new world. Khadgar wondered if his friend saw, really saw, how much he inspired his soldiers. And how he inspired one in particular, who was looking at him now with an all-too-rare unguarded expression on her beautiful, elven face.
Turalyon turned his horse and spurred it up the stone ramp toward the Dark Portal itself. His steed shied, resisting, but Turalyon held the reins firm and forced it on. The swirling light beckoned, and he passed through it, its greenish glow overpowering his own white light for an instant before he vanished completely between the columns. Alleria and Khadgar were right behind him. The mage wrestled with his horse and felt a curious sensation as man and beast entered the rift, a ripple of cold and a tugging feeling, as if a strong current pulled at him. A chill swept over him, and for an instant he saw blackness and stars and swirls and flashes of strange colors all mingled together. Then he was emerging, and the hot air warmed skin that had grown inexplicably cold during the brief crossing.
Bright … it was so very bright. He automatically lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. And hot, too, a dry, savage heat that struck Khadgar as being almost physical. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust — and gasped.
He stood on stone, dwarfed by a version of the portal that was as huge and elaborate as the one they'd just crossed through was perfunctory and hastily assembled. Statues of hooded men towered on either side, and the stairs led down to a second courtyard flanked by enormous, sullenly burning braziers. Two pillars topped with fire stood on either side of a strangely made road and…
The cracked, red, barren plain that stretched before them was somewhat familiar, evocative of the Blasted Lands. Even as he stared, in the distance the desiccated earth cracked open. Fire leaped upward as if a dragon were hatching, breaking through the earth as if from its shell. But Khadgar's eyes were fixed on the sky. It was red, the deep red of fresh blood, and high above shone an angry crimson sun, its heat beating down upon them. And, Light help him, the sky, too, was familiar.
"No," he said in a broken voice. "No," he whispered again. "Not here! Not like this!"
"What is it?" Alleria asked him. He ignored her. It was all as it was in the vision — the sky, the land — "Khadgar! What's wrong?"
He started, as if waking up, but the horrible scene before him did not dissipate. He shook his head and forced a wan smile. "Nothing," he lied. Then, realizing how transparent that falsehood was, he corrected himself. "I have had… visions of this place before. I hadn't expected — I didn't think I would have to face them so soon. I — it overwhelmed me for a second. My apologies."
Alleria frowned up at him, concerned, but saw that he was not g
oing to explain further. "It is—" She closed her mouth, unable to find the words. She put a hand to her heart as if it physically hurt, and for a moment Khadgar roused from his own despair to pity her. She was an elf, a child of forests and trees and growing, healthy lands. She looked stunned, sickened — almost as sick as Khadgar felt. Out of nowhere, a wind kicked up. With no plants to anchor the soil, the greedy blast seized the dead, dusty soil and scoured them with it. They all coughed, and reached for something, anything, to cover mouths and noses and eyes.
This was it. Khadgar suddenly realized that in stepping through the portal, he had stepped forward into a destiny he had hoped would be a long time coming. In the vision, he looked as he had now — an old man. And now he was here. Damn it, I'm just twenty-two… . Am I going to die here? he thought sickly, trying to recover. I've hardly even lived —
The wind died down as quickly as it had come. "Ugly place," Danath Trollbane said, coughing as he drew up alongside them. Khadgar latched onto the steady warrior's matter-of-fact demeanor for support. 'And is it me or do the Blasted Lands look a lot like this, as well?"
Khadgar nodded. It was good to have something else to focus on. "Their, uh — this world was leaking into ours through the rift. And whatever caused this damage — I suspect it was their warlocks and the dark magic they wield — began affecting ours as well." He forced himself to analyze their surroundings with a dispassionate eye. It was not just dead, it looked like this world had been sucked dry. What had the orcs done to this place?
"We managed to halt the process on Azeroth, thank the Light. But clearly the land here has suffered the same injury, only for much longer. I suspect this world was far more benign once."
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