Warcraft: Beyond the Dark Portal

Prologue: Simmering Darkness

Early Summer 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

These were grievous times.

That though had clung to Kilrogg Deadeyes' mind for many moons, and flirted with him as he looked out the flat, dank ground that led to what could be the Bleeding Hollow Clan's final stand. He did not think of himself when he said so, but rather of his people's destiny, one that seemed in increasing jeopardy.

The Horde. Created in the early times of Killrogg's rule, grown from shamans' clans into a force that subjugated an entire world under its fist. To conquer and rule had seemed to be his people's destiny. It had been his belief that it would be, that it must, and that the bloodlust and fighting rage were nothing but blessing. That had been why Kilrogg and his Clan had made the Pact with the Legion, that was why the Clan had followed Blackhand the Destroyer and later, the even more magnificent Orgrimm Doomhammer. Doomhammer, with his powerful warlord Argal Grimfrost, had almost succeeded in destroying the human's Alliance, driving it back to their capital, before Gul'Dan's treachery maimed the Horde's might.

Then the impossible had arrived. The Horde had been pushed back by the Alliance, broken at Blackrock Spire and scattered at the Portal. The humans and their allies had been quick in taking advantage of their victories. Most of his people now lived in guarded camps, while others hid in the wilderness or in well-hidden colonies. Some, like the Bleeding Hollow, had chosen none of the options and had fled, and for well over five human years had eked out a living by raid and foraging.

'Dogs', Kilrogg thought, anger seizing him at the very word. 'We've been hunted throughout these lands like humans would chase rabid dogs! Zuluhed may still hold some territory, but that's only a fragile land. Eventually the dwarves and the humans would have enough resources to come after that fool! But its still better than Grimfrost, that blasted traitor!'

The old chieftain fought to control his welling wrath. Unlike the younger members of his Clan, he was now used to dealing with the hot blood, which gave the orcs their power in battle. He had other things to worry about, and lamenting over the past would serve no purpose. He had to lead his people back home, and not in this land of pink-skinned fools. He was simply hoping the dire times would not become the last for his proud warriors.

He was trusting recurring dreams, which had urged him to lead the remnants of his people - barely a few thousands after years of infighting, Alliance pursuit and anger - though enemy territory, to the portal, following the guidance of one who promised a way back to Dreanor, their true home. He only hoped the dreams weren't his aging mind playing tricks on him.

He showed none of his doubts to his warriors or the returning scouts - to do so invited weakness in himself and removal, probably through a fatal duel. He only gave a level, one-eyed gaze as they came to him. Each of them looked as gaunt and as hungry as he himself felt - subsistence had been hard to find - but they all looked at him with faith and resolve.

"How are things?" he asked simply.

"The humans don't like the swamps." one sneered. "They keep their patrols near Nethergarde, and they're more busy splashing water on themselves than watching out for us!" That was the way things were with humans, Kilrogg mused to himself, with their heavy armour and the ease with which they catch illnesses in these lands. Still, the chieftain told himself with grudging clarity, it was a good thing that the humans were being quiet. His people were gathered in strength, but hunger and weakness was overcoming them. They would never survive a large engagement.

"I suppose we will move, then." He declared at last. "And if I was tricked, and the humans wait in ambush, then the Bleeding Hollow will fight to the last, without surrendering!"

The warriors did not cheer - such a noise would certainly have brought the Alliance patrols down on them - but they gave him approving gazes. Indeed, many looked eager to give their life in battle. To an orc grunt, it was certainly better than being run down like a fleeing boar. Kilrogg, however, wasn't so safe in that belief. He had seen too many orclings die during the years of flight, too many males and females. The thought of leading what remained to their deaths was unappealing at best. As if reading his hidden thoughts, a cold, disembodied voice the old chieftain disliked intensely and feared just as much rang out.

"There is not time for such talk! The power that beckons is dark and strong. There is power awaiting us, feeling for us as we speak. But not for long! We must go now, chieftain, or wither to nothing here!"

Many warriors fidgeted as the aged chieftain faced the nearby being that had talked. Shrouded in a cloak and the remains of what had once been fine human plate armour, only glowing ethereal eyes and a pungent smell of decay told of the Death Knight's powerful, unnatural presence.

"Varlog, I need no advice from you. The Bleeding Hollow Clan moves when I say so. Never before." Death Knights, undead creations that had spread fear on many battlefields, were no longer many. Most had been killed during the last battles of the war, while some had fled to Dreanor before the Alliance took control of the Portal. As for the rest, some had fallen prey to the ever-growing number of the accursed Paladins and human sorcerers.

Yet, even one was fearsome. One did not speak to a Death Knight as Kilrogg did. But the aged chieftain would not let anyone assume command over his people. To salvation or destruction, he would be the one to lead them this day.

Their gaze locked in silent combat, and although some part of the old orc quailed from the undead gaze, the spirit that had held him through years of leadership and battles made him hold on. 'I will not be broken by a warlock spirit in a human corpse!' he repeated to himself savagely. Finally, the intensity of the ethereal look dimmed grudgingly.

"Very well, chieftain. You lead." Varlog said almost petulantly. "Then, what is your decision? Does the Bleeding Hollow Clan rush in and hope that the powers aid them, or do they go back to a life of fugitives awaiting capture by the humans?"

And there was everything in one sentence, wasn't there? It sounded too realistic to Kilrogg's mind. He again saw the deaths, always burying new dead. Always fleeing, defeated when they gave battle, their spirits drained of their power and hope. A shadow of a once mighty Clan.

The choice was his. To trust in the dreams, to trust in this power. Or to doom his people.

Was there truly ever any choice?

Early Summer 606, Nethergarde, Wildlands

"Captain Bram! Captain Bram!" Third Sword Hanse Dryfield's youthful voice rang out, penetrating Bram Poorglade's fuzzy, alcohol-muddled mind. The voice seemed to assail him from everywhere at once, hammering at him with the force of three ogre fists. Had the lad been close at hand, he probably would have strangled him for waking him up in such a moment. His dreams had been...well, there had been no dreams. 'A good sleep.' he grunted to himself as he shifted in his bed sheets. 'A luxury I can't get near enough these days. Damned dwarven spirits. Blasted kid. Cursed life.'

"Captain Bram!" The voice shouted again, unmistakably excited as always. The hangovered veteran couldn't escape it, no matter how he wished it.

"How by all that the Holy Light surveys can he shout right through a heavy wooden door, Pa?" he growled. His departed father, as always, kept his answers to himself. Cursed life. With words that would probably have gotten him a lecture from either a priest or a paladin, he heaved himself off his bed, being careful to hide the half-empty bottle of dwarven spirits before he sat in the chair next to his bunk, pulling his boots on.

"Light burn ya, Hanse, just come in before you break the door! I'm awake now, can't do much good havin' the door closed!" he shouted sarcastically. On cue, the door opened. Or rather, nearly slammed into the wall, admitting a young man with bright, excited green eyes in the chain shirt and helm and sword of the Alliance Infantry. Hanse's face - painful in its naive desire to please - seemed lit up like a magic orb.

"Captain, you have to come to the battlements!" the young man said quickly, nearly bouncing - bouncing! - in place. "You must see this! Its not normal!"

Poorglade grunted. Like many of the Alliance soldiers who had survived, Bram had found the post-war era difficult to live with for many reasons, and he had remained in the Alliance Army. With help from his former commander, Aerth Swiftblade, he'd been assigned as second-in-command of Nethergarde's resident garrison.

Nethergarde itself had been built on the now-historic place where the Lord-Generals of the Alliance had met with High General Turalyon one last time before launching the battle, which heralded the end of the Second War. With funding from Dalaran, a large keep and many outbuildings had been built, including a smithy, stables and a small temple to the Holy Light. The compound had been surrounded by a large, magic-strengthened wall and a runic, mithril gate. Such had been the place created to guard against the orcs' possible return.

The only thing Poorglade had had to guard against, in three years, were boredom and the humidity of the Black Morass, but Hanze Dryfield seemed made up of nothing but optimism. As such, every insignificant change seemed a cause for rejoicing. As it was, Hanse and the unproven part of the garrison were starting to get on the experienced soldier's nerves. Still, remembering a time when he had been like Hanse fifteen years before, Poorglade forced calm unto himself despite a definitely aching head.

"What is it now, Hanse? Another group of crocodiles loitering outside the walls? Or maybe you've seen a troll, like last time? Or maybe it's something else entirely. Please tell me. I can't wait." 'Well, maybe I'm not that calm after all.' he mused inwardly. Hanse, as always didn't notice his captain's tone.

"Its not like that, captain. Its just...the forest parts are damned quiet, if you see what I mean. And there's something from the south. Something strange. Like...black oil in the sky.

Poorglade raised his head and stared at the youth intently at the last. "The forest all quiet, and something in the sky down south?" He was inclined to disbelieve this as fairy tale, but the young man's eyes were adamant this time. Something deep in his gut - a part that had saved many a veteran's life - stirred, and Poorglade quickly put on his armour, ordering the Third Sword outside.

He hadn't made it to the wall when he felt it. A strange quiet, abnormal for what was usually a place alive with the noises of the Black Morass' life. Something about it reminded him of his old days, walking as a recruit under a sweltering sun, as the marshes around him went quiet right before he had faced his first battle against the orcs.

Poorglade nearly ran up the battlements to look out. What he saw, along with nervous footmen and mages, burned away his headache and made him shiver.

There was something filling up space in the south, spreading faster, northwards. A sort of blackness that he knew without asking the mages to be unnatural. It was an effect he'd seen only a few times, but the scope of it, the magnitude of the tempest he saw developing, was much greater then any he had seen.

It was as if a giant octopus had secreted its black oil against the sun, clouding it and the land under an ominous, threatening gloom and rapidly increasing winds. It was dark magic, he saw it in the eyes of every veteran he knew, and felt it in his soul.

"Do you think its them, captain? The orcs, I mean?" Hanse asked nearby. And as he spoke, a clamour rose from the forest. Voices. Thousands of them. Walking briskly, chanting war songs. They spoke in a language and a way he'd come to know well. His reaction was immediate.

"Light...secure the gate! Sound the alarms. Every man, to arms!" he called loudly. With the garrison commander out to Stormwind to meet King Varien, it fell upon him to call the stunned men to order. The veterans of the Second War reacted at once, shaking off their stupor in an instant, a placid yet grim mask on their features forming as officers gave order and soldiers prepared for battle. Mages opened spellbooks while others went to send messages to Stormwind Keep. The recruits were slower to respond, unused as they were to the situation despite training, but within moments the entire keep was active.

Darkness fell. Winds roared. And in the distance all could hear the march of thousands of orcish feet. Shrieks were heard, shrieks of dragons, over the clamour. Bram's blood turned to ice, waiting for the onslaught. Yet it never came. As the darkness blocked his vision outside the fortress, and as Nethergarde wizards seemed to have no success in dispelling it despite obvious incantations, Nethergarde was at the Horde's mercy.

Yet the clamour never gained strength. Rather, slowly but inexorably, it seemed to leech away, disappearing into the southern reaches of the Black Morass. It was then that the realization truly entered Bram Poorglade's mind. It wasn't pleasant. Compared to its portents, a thousand hangovers were easy trifles. But it fit. He knew it, and from other veteran expressions - expressions that had located where the Horde was disappearing in, who knew it by heart - there was no doubt. He grabbed the nearest wizard and nearly made the man fall over the battlement with the surprising movement.

"Contact Lord Khadgar with your spells, wizard. We all know its open." he looked up at the unnatural blackness. He did not say what 'it' was. That much was plain. "The Light help us, its open."

Early Summer 606, Dark Portal Corridor, Twisting Nether

The Twisted Nether. The link between the human world and Dreanor ran through and was partly nourished by it. At the very least, that was what Kilrogg had come to understand by it. Now, as he led his people back to his homeworld, the old chieftain could see how true that assumption had been. And how dangerous the terrain he was traversing was.

The journey between the worlds had been, when he had used it long ago, a corridor of strange purple hues, straight from one end to the other. This was not the way it had been at first - the human wizard who had created the Portal had also managed to stabilize it - and here he felt he was seeing the reason so many of the first expeditions had never returned, or returned raving and insane.

The walls of the corridor seemed to flow in strange ways, with arcs of arcane power jutting from them at irregular intervals. Such things he could have dealt with. He had seen worse in his long life. But Kilrogg saw something infinitely more frightening, something that shook even his heart hardened by conflict and a curse of bloodlust he could never lift.

Outside the walls, which seemed thin and weak, he could see the Great Dark Beyond, in its infinite darkness and unfathomable cold. He could also see, in this dimension, the denizens of this world. Not directly, only something queer at the edge of his vision. He felt that, if he looked hard enough, he would see the infinite ranks of the Burning Legion watching him.

Kilrogg Deadeye chose not to look hard enough to see it.

"Make certain everyone stays away from these walls!" he told his most trusted warriors. "The orclings and the females must stay in the middle! Again, don't touch these walls for any reason! I don't trust them. By the Beyond, I don't trust them."

"The power that set this path is near. We have almost reached the other side." Varlog announced in a hollow voice rendered even more menacing than ever by the circumstances. Not for the first time, Kilrogg wondered if he had made the right choice. 'But did I have a choice at that time?'

"Help me!" The terror-filled scream came from near the front of the column, and the old chieftain quickly found who had spoken. One of his grunts had been surprised by the shifting walls, and was caught. At first it seemed as if he was simply being held there by the shifting energies, but the orc was clearly straining. The Bleeding Hollow leader realized it at once: something was physically pulling him to the other side. He saw some orcs moving in to help.

"No! Leave him!" He thundered, putting all of his years of leadership into his voice. They stopped, and looked at him with stunned eyes. Years of hiding and surviving forged a bond between the remaining members of the Bleeding Hollow Clan. Abandoning one of their own was almost impossible to bear.

And it had to be done.

"We can't do anything for him! Back to the column! NOW!" he shouted. They hesitated, but at that moment the grunt disappeared through the wall. All around them, eerie sounds intensified. He gave the Death Knight a look. "Close to the opening? Pray to the Beyond, that we will not join it! Everyone, hasten the pace!"

They did, and as they advanced the shimmering walls seemed to draw closer. One grunt screamed, then another. Then many others. The cacophony of death began to echo down the magical corridor, and Kilrogg had to steel himself against the despair welling up inside of him. He was the chieftain; he wouldn't dash their hopes by abandoning his. He continued to march forward.

Forward. Forcing his aging body on at a fast pace, not letting the dread overwhelm him, not letting the anger overwhelm him, not letting fatigue overwhelm him. He stepped forward once more... and saw the flickering, translucent end of the tunnel. Dreanor was near.

"We have come! The power is near!" The Death Knight said, and then seemed to stagger a moment. "I recognize it. I do recognize it!"

There was no time to ask the undead creature about it. Kilrogg motioned forward, and quickly to the opening. Behind him, he heard the thunder of thousands following him, of dragons uneasily flying near the corridor's roof, of ogres, orcs and trolls quickly marching down. He took one step, heard something akin to voices from the corridor. And, as quickly as that, emerged thought the Portal, seeing a sight he had not seen in nearly a quarter of a human century.

Grey-green grounds. Stringy trees. Moist weather. A reddish sky. Home.

He turned to see his people coming through the Portal, ever more numerous. Cries of fear and anger were replaced by cries of happiness, and Kilrogg took his notched axe and raise a bellow of victory his warriors all took up. 'Alive! We have survived! We are home!' his elated mind told him, almost refusing to believe it.

"Welcome back to your home, Kilrogg Deadeye, chieftain of the great Bleeding Hollow Clan!" A voice told him from nearby, and deadeye turned to see an orc dressed in the manner of the shamans of old, his face painted with a white and black mask. It was a very old orcish face, and a face Kilrogg knew only too well.

"The power which opened the Portal was yours. I'm not surprised." Varlog sepulchral voice drifted in. Kilrogg had already guessed it, had already thought about it. 'Who else but he or Gul'Dan could do this? And with Gul'Dan dead, nothing of this is really surprising.'

"This is all very good. Again, Kilrogg Deadeyes, welcome." the old orc's wrinkled mouth of yellow teeth and broken tusks grinned the grin of the arrogant and the powerful. "Ner'Zul, chietain of the Shadowmoon Clan, welcomes you."

Early Summer 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

After an extensive survey of the Alliance's defences in the Kingdom of Azeroth, Aerth Swiftblade had found it good to return to his home, to his wife and growing children. He had intended to make the best of the time he had, but all of that would have gone after a good night's rest. At forty, age hadn't yet caught up with the Duke of Sunshire, but he could feel his body beginning to slow down. He needed more rest, was somewhat less spry than he had once been.

Which is why he had really not liked being shaken awake an hour before sunrise. Anger and indignation, however, had faded to surprise and quickly concern as he had recognized the one who had done so. It had been neither a member of his family or a servant, but Khadgar himself. A short conversation and a quick fitting of plate armour - aided by magical aids to speed things up - and the knight and wizard had teleported to Nethergarde, to meet a force ready to go investigate the nearby disturbance.

'A disturbance.' he grunted mentally at the understatement. 'We may be looking at a Third War here. And we're not ready. Light be with us, we just can't fight another war like that yet!' Yet as he looked at the shimmering tear hanging in the air, Swiftblade realized he might not have much choice in the matter. Vedran, his vibrant eldest, was thirteen years of age, which meant he would fight in this Third War just like his father had fought in the First. Not a pleasant thought.

"Well, Alleria?" He asked as the exiled Ranger-General of Quel'Thalas finished gathering information from her hunters.

"There's no doubt, general. The signs and prints give a clear picture that the Bleeding Hollow Clan bypassed our hunting parties," she began with more than a little bitterness, "marched to here and disappeared, probably through that rift."

"But I thought we had managed to seal it-" Swiftblade began.

"Seal it? No. We put a makeshift ward to prevent people from passing through, but I knew it wouldn't hold indefinitely." Khadgar looked old now, Swiftblade thought, cares and worries having turned the powerful archmage into an aging man in few years of time. He looked even older as he regarded the Dark Portal's remains with a look of resignation. "I did think it would hold longer."

"None of the wizards here could penetrate that black fog. T'was definitely unnatural, milord." Swiftblade heard Bram Poorglade speak. Poorglade had done a good job getting the fortress ready for battle, given its foppish commander's absence, and he'd insisted on leading the details accompanying the three Alliance leaders to the centre of the problem.

"Magic, most likely. Powerful magic of demonic origins would be able to pierce my spell, but it would take time, effort, a powerful mind and some mighty artefacts." the Archmage mused. "This foe is not one to be underestimated."

"I never underestimate these foul beasts." Alleria growled, her pretty eyes flashing angrily. Anger had been her most frequent emotion since her exile from Silvermoon. "I'll find stragglers, I'll find the truth from them if I have to beat all of them to death!"

Swiftblade didn't say anything for a moment. He only gave Khadgar a long look. Weary, the mage seemed. Weary about this and more. He had heard that there were problems in Dalaran, problems dealing with a possible magical schism in the ancient arcane city. Hearsay and gossip that he had never entertained. But now...

He made his decision.

"Alleria, do not bother capturing stragglers." he said as he shifted his gaze to the rift. "I have a better use of your fleet feet and quick wits. I have a mission for you."

"Sir, I must insist that-" The elf began, but Swiftblade raised his voice slightly, giving her a steely look. Wanting it or not, if there was a war, he would do everything to prevent the slaughter which had taken his parents and far too many friends.

"Alleria, I am the one who, as Lord-General, must insist. I hereby order you to send your swiftest scouts and go to every military stronghold they can reach. Tell them that the High General orders all available units to the Black Morass, and that swiftness is paramount." He said.

"High General Turalyon? With all due respect, you can't act as the High General. That's exceeding your authority!" Poorglade gasped. Aerth only gave a shrug at the fact.

"Given the circumstances, I'm certain Turalyon won't mind me temporarily acting in his name. If he does, he can tell me so when he gets here. Which is where you come in, Alleria. Once your people are sent, gather a few to yourself and go find Turalyon. Tell him the situation. He'll act on that." Swiftblade could sense a good deal of hesitation from both human and elf, but he couldn't concern himself with it. Already, his mind was turning towards armaments, defences and possible strategies.

"I will bring back what spellcasters I can, and advise the Silver Hand of this." Khadgar finally said after a long look at the rift. "I will come back as soon as I am able." With a hearty sigh and a few arcane words, he was gone. Swiftblade was already shifting his attention to Poorglade.

"We need to review Nethergarde's garrison, and prepare for new arrivals. When the Horde comes back - and if their nature is proof, they shall - I intend for the fortress to be as large a hindrance as it can be. I saw what happens to us when we are caught unprepared firsthand. It will not be so this time." He gestured to Alleria. "I need you to do this, Alleria. I do need it. Find Turalyon, find whoever can help, and bring them back to this place."

Vedran, fighting the Horde in bloody battlefields? Never. He wouldn't allow his eldest son to be scarred by years of war.

When the Horde came, he'd be as ready as possible.

Author's Notes: Well, here we are! The beginning of the warcraft expansion given out in words! Its very interesting because I will have much to create about Dreanor, and this in itself makes it all worth it. You can be certain you'll see all of the major players of Tides of Darkness at some point, and I will flesh out and introduce new characters more important to this story.

As for the Dalaran story, I have decided to largely incorporate it in this story. Be sure that the human homeland will have their own share of upheavals, and not all caused by the Horde's resurgence.

I hope you'll enjoy things here as I progressively write them out!

Jeremy