Chapter Nineteen: Debts and Dragons

Early Spring 607, Whitefort, Lordaeron

From his vantage point, Orgrimm Doomhammer, Warchief of the Horde, saw some of the soaring towers and gleaming parapets that made up a part of Lordaeron's capital city. Any damage done by the horde's weaponry had been diligently purged and repaired, and one might never guess that the human city had almost fallen.

This was where the Horde had almost triumphed over the Alliance. Lordearon had been the strongest nation at the time, with other powers such as Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas already wounded, some others, as Gilneas, unwilling to commit, and one nation, Alterac, having joined the Horde in all but name.

Had the city fallen, the Alliance would have been dealt a crippling, probably fatal, blow. Terenas, Lothar, and several of the best human commanders had been defending the city. Had it fallen, the Alliance leadership would have been beheaded. Lordaeron would have been dismembered, and only Kul Tiras, the remnants of Azeroth and Dalaran would have remained defiant.

Yes, Doomhammer knew it: he had been at the very threshold of utter victory. Despite his drive, he never had been able to fully appreciate what he had been about to achieve. However, that hadn't stopped his rage when Gul'Dan had betrayed him, taking half of the invasion force, forcing the loyalists into giving chase. That mad adventure had destroyed nearly two-thirds of the Horde's army.

And then Lothar had, as Doomhammer had feared, rallied all that he could of the human, elven and dwarven armies, and pushed at the frontlines. Kul Tiras soon defeated most of the Horde Fleet at Crestfall, and Dreanor's leaders stopped sending reinforcements, deeming the invasion a lost cause.

The Warchief had done his best afterwards, but the humans and their allies had a large manpower pool to draw from, while the Horde only had peons, often unsuited for combat. The caste system had worked against them, as Durotan had warned it would. The human armies grew ever stronger, eventually outnumbering the orc armies.

Then, Lothar, his old enemy, had mustered nearly all of his forces and laid siege to Blackrock Spire itself. Attrition had clearly shown that the Alliance would eventually prevail, forcing the Warchief to do something he really wished he had never done: he had challenged Lothar to combat, winning after a long, damaging battle. The human had been the greatest opponent that Doomhammer had ever killed, but an icon to the humans. He had hoped to see the Alliance hesitate.

Instead, the humans had acted with a fury which defied reason. It was as if the entire species had been infused by bloodlust, one even more potent than the one affecting the orcish people. They had thrown themselves forward, unrelenting, not caring of the cost. Thousands and thousands had died, but the defences had been shattered.

When the end had been clear, when the humans, led by their knights and paladins, had been swarming through the gates with their allies, Doomhammer had called for a general retreat. He had barely had enough time to see his friends' elite troops fleeing the battlefield before his war room was overrun.

And then, with dozens of knights storming in, Doomhammer had been made prisoner. The war, he knew, had been lost.

Even years later, it was burning his soul.

Although captured, and imprisoned, he'd been cunning enough to learn what had happened after wards: the defeat at the Dark Portal, the death of most of his warriors, and the fact that most of his people were now living in large, fortified camps, slowly succumbing a to a certain lethargy.

For his part, the Warchief had been brought to Lordaeron, where their King, Terenas Menethil, had decided to keep him as an 'honoured prisoner'. He had been furnished with a room, carefully set with a fortified, iron door and a window which, while open, was set with a magical forcefield. They had also set elite guards to watch him at all times.

In the beginning, at least. But Doomhammer had managed to carry a hidden agenda about his people for several years. He had pushed for victory over the humans and their allies because it would have allowed his people to conquer a new planet for themselves. A new place. A new start. He had shared as much with Argal Grimfrost, one of the few in the Horde he had regarded as a friend and confidant.

That very orc, he knew, had taken a large part of his army and what people he could, and left the battlefield, depriving the Horde of some of its most elite troops. At the time, Doomhammer had been shocked, driven half-mad with rage at what he saw as his friend's betrayal.

"Who betrayed who?" he asked as he looked down from the window. It was set near the castle's outer wall, and from there he saw a moat, and then the streets of the capital city, bustling with human life. A city saved only because an orc had betrayed another orc. The Horde had been good at that, better than even the humans, at betraying.

His anger at Grimfrost had, quickly enough, given way to dull regret. His friend had never liked the idea of them killing all the humans. He, so much like Durotan had, talked of finding a way to make peace and find a place they could make their own. "Blood and rage can't help our people find salvation." He had said. And he, Doomhammer, had called him short-sighted.

For Doomhammer knew. He knew that, as he waged the war, he had begun to see things much like his despicable predecessor, Blackhand, had seen the world. He had wanted glory and victory. He had been blind to the overextension of his own forces, at Lothar's stout resistance and, mostly, had chosen to ignore Gul'Dan. All fatal missteps.

Now, he had learned, the Horde on Dreanor had begun acting, striking at different places in Alliance territory. He had learned, through careful conversation, that the leaders of the Alliance had sent the so-called Alliance Expedition, an army made up of all of the states in the coalition. He had also learned, through the same channels and his own wits, that this would probably be the last action the Alliance of Lordaeron might take as a truly unified body.

"Ner'Zul stopped caring about our people here long ago." He mused to himself. "I have a feeling that he'll fail in some way. My people's salvation won't come from Dreanor."

He'd had dreams, of late. Dreams of an orc wearing his armour, wielding his Doomhammer. A warchief, but a wise and benevolent one. Not tainted, but hardened by life. Someone, he had felt, might lead his people to the dream a few had shared, and which Doomhammer had forgotten for a time: a new, peaceful home.

He didn't know any details. However, the fact that the youth wore his weapons – which Doomhammer had secreted away before his capture, in a vault no one but himself knew of – meant that the imprisoned warrior still had a part to play in future events.

This suited Doomhammer fine. Years of patience had born fruit. The humans, who had been so intent on keeping an eye on him, had grown accustomed to his presence, but also used to his calm and subdued politeness. Thy thought, he knew, that they had finally tamed the once-mighty Orgrimm Doomhammer. It was, for them, the definite proof that the human-led Alliance had truly shown itself superior to the orc-led Horde.

'Really, humans have such an inflated view of themselves.' He thought with scorn. Although he respected several of the human leaders and commanders for their mind and prowess, he found the human race to be rather weak and dull in general. Moreover, he saw that this very pride was breaking the Alliance apart.

If the Alliance stood as one, Doomhammer knew that the orcs in this new world stood no chance. However, the human nations were becoming paranoid, distrustful. The stubborn, martial people of Stromgarde and the aloof people of Gilneas, he'd learned, were close to leaving. The elves had already all but left. The people of Azeroth were too busy rebuilding. The Alliance was weakened.

Carefully, Doomhammer removed a stone he had carefully unfastened from the wall, just under his window. Hearing no noise from outside – his guards were probably busy playing dice or cards to alleviate their boredom, and were certainly not interested in him – he set it on the floor, and carefully put his hand through the hole he had created.

As he had half-expected, the magical field didn't touch that point. It had been designed only to cover the window. It hadn't been designed to expand beyond it. Sloppy work, he thought. 'Or, rather, overconfident work. Who am I, after all? Just one orc, no matter how powerful.'

He knew that his people might be seriously weakened. But he had heart. Grimfrost was too cunning to have been caught, which meant that his people flourished there. Other parts of the Horde held points in hidden valleys, or in strongholds throughout the southern half of the Continent. The humans may have won, but the battle wasn't over yet.

'Terenas, old fool.' He thought with a smile, 'Thank you for the years I spent as your prisoner. They were very informative. A learning experience to see you ugly pinkskins up close.'

He put the rock back exactly where it belonged. Once again, he felt the magical force held him from the window. It seemed the humans didn't think he'd figure something so simple. Or, maybe… but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he could escape. And return to the Horde.

And, once free, he'd seek Grimfrost out. Once he had forgiven his old friend, and had his warriors, then the Horde would resurface and look for the one who would one day succeed him to his armour, his weapon, and his title!

Eldritch energies lashed out from the dragon, even as his fiery breath roared around the small group. Another elf screamed as he ignited, flailing away at the flames, before falling into a flaming heap. All around the expansive cave, the battle raged on between the ancient Aspect and the mortal who had dared to challenge it.

Khadgar called upon his magic to shield them from the flames, at the same time trying to deflect as much as the magic as possible. Already, only eight of the small expedition still stood and fought, including himself, Alleria, Kurdran, and Sky'Ree. All others were dead.

Their deaths hadn't been in vain, however. Their concentrated strikes, the battering of dozens of storm hammers, the multitude of expert arrows and attack spells, had taken its toll. Deathwing was slowed, wounded. For the first time in perhaps millennia, the maddened, ancient dragon was on the verge of defeat.

That realization, however, had come upon Deathwing, and the response had been terrible to behold. Even Medivh, his master, hadn't shown this potential for destruction, this reckless bloodlust and need for violence.

"Kurdran! Buy me time!" He shouted. The dwarf only roared along with his gryphon, the duo circling around the enemy. Great claws had raked them, spells had hit them, and yet the two continued to lay into their enemy. They were a threat that the Aspect couldn't ignore. That gave the mage a needed reprieve. "Alleria."

At once, the elf arrived, crouching beside him, the both of them partially hidden by a rock. Around them, the titanic duel raged. The gryphon rider couldn't hope to contain the dragon for long. But he trusted the warrior to make do.

Alleria was burned, bruised, her magnificent appearance marred by weariness and battle. Yet, her eyes were as defiant as ever. Her soul and her dedication to the battle were whole. That was enough for Khadgar. He grasped a fallen arrow, and began muttering arcane words. It was a dangerous business, he knew even as he started to ram his energies into the weapon.

But they had nothing else. Both sides were playing their last cards. Although they'd weathered the onslaught, the dint still went against the expedition. He couldn't allow it. They had to put Deathwing out of action, if not kill the being outright.

'Kill him?' he scoffed to himself, 'Our powers are too small next to his. Killing him is out of the question. I think it would take many archmages working in concert to have a chance, and even then…'

"Alleria, take this arrow." He said as he completed the ritual. "I've put in nearly all that remains of my power in it. Hit him. Hit him where it hurts. And, by the Light, don't miss!"

She took the arrow, then nodded. If anyone could make the shot, it was Alleria. She was said to be the finest archer in the entire Alliance, and Khadgar was willing to believe it. 'The Windrunners… such a powerful bloodline.'

There was a cry of pain and both Kurdran and Sky'Ree fell with a resounding noise which echoed throughout the cavern. Both landed in different places, and both tried to move as the powerful dragon approached them. The archmage quickly made his way to them, and struck the dragon with a lightning bolt, wincing at the strain.

"Fool human… wasteful by-product of the land." The Aspect intoned with a sneer. "You really believed you could defeat me, the greatest of all the Aspects, the greatest of all dragons."

"Alexstrasza is Queen of Dragonkind, Deathwing." Khadgar answered in what he hoped was a sneering tone of his own. "Not you."

"Humans and their love of titles. We called her Queen, because we all needed to call someone leader. She was never the strongest. Always, I was the stronger. I showed her my power a little while ago, and forced the Reds to fight your petty, fledgling Alliance."

"I thought as much." He agreed, "But it changes nothing. You're a betrayer, a destroyer. You're not even fit to call yourself one of the Aspects. You're not even following what the Titans wished for you to do."

"You dare! You dare talk of the Titans, being which are far beyond your understanding." The dragon raged, "If only for that, you will die here."

"Do it, then, if you can." The archmage answered, "I've had enough of trying to talk to an overgrown worm." Yes. The sneer was definitely there. Good.

The dragon swatted him away with its paw, and before Khadgar quite knew what was happening, her was flung into the cavern wall. His vision, blurred by shock and pain, barely made out the dragons open mouth descending upon him as his body twitched and convulsed. He held on the consciousness, hoping for a few instants more…

And then the great head reared back with pain and hatred, and Khadgar felt it. He felt that Alleria had launched her arrow. It, was, he thought, right into the dragon's neck. A peck. A painful one. One which the beast would remove in a moment.

Khadgar called upon all of his powers, his studies, his training. He bid the pain to go away, and reached out with his remaining inkling of power. He touched the arrow with his mind, and then, with what strength remained in him, he forced that very power to open up and strike.

There was a brilliant flash. The roar of pain became one of fear, and then the arrow exploded.

The explosion was like ten dwarven explosives going of at the same time – an arcane bomb, as it were. The dragon's neck was no longer whole – a great gouge, deep and slick with beastly blood, had appeared. The dragon trashed, its eyes filled with something very human – terror.

"You… I… mortal… just one…" the dragon gurgled, and then it screamed again. Kurdran had thrown his hammer into the wound, and was holding it again, prepared to throw it again. Despite his pain, Khadgar could see that Alleria was leading the remaining archers and mages into a last, relentless barrage.

The dragon roared and trashed, and then Sky'Ree was upon it, its head plunging into the gouge, and coming away bloody. It resisted the dragon's flailing, enlarging the wound, as the others continued their assault, heedless.

The great Aspect then threw the gryphon down with strength, and began to stomp to the entrance. Khadgar followed the beast's path and saw that it was slowing, weakening. 'Can it be possible? Can we actually kill an Aspect?'

Then Deathwing stopped, bloody, at the edge of the entrance, where the mountainside dropped down for leagues. Its giant head turned towards them all, bloody and battered as they all were, at the end of their strength.

"Never." It boomed, simply, and then it toppled forward, into the darkness of the lower grounds, beyond their reach.

"We got the beastie!" Kurdran growled out, his voice shaking. Alleria was already making her way to Khadgar.

"Let's hope so, my friend." She said, and the archmage looked at her dazedly as she bent towards him. "Are you alright?"

"No." he answered weakly, then chuckled painfully. "Take… scrolls… teleportation… in my sash." It had been his hope to use many more, but these had been dashed quickly. The expedition was now down to six people. Six survivors who had defeated an Aspect.

'But we didn't kill it.' he thought, 'Somehow, I'm certain its still alive. But it should take it a long time to recover from that. Long enough, hopefully.'

"That was good work, all being said. Wasn't it, Alleria?" he asked faintly. She grinned down at him.

"Yes. Something the bards would sing for a millennia at least." She answered gently, and he nodded. 'That's as much as I can do here.'

With that, Khadgar finally let himself go, into blissful unconsciousness.

Vedran wondered if one could actually die of shame. If it was possible, then he was certain it would happen to him soon. He had made a mess, and he saw no way to undo what had been done.

He hadn't expected that farmer to be a member of that… Defiance… Defiant… Brotherhood. Not at all. When asked who he was and what he was doing there – especially since he was all but on top of the farmer's girl, he had acted as he was certain his father, a knight, would have : he had said the truth.

Truth, he had discovered, was sometimes best kept to oneself. Because of it, he was locked in a room, like a common prisoner, with no weapon and stale food, while his mother was being cornered by the bandits into betraying Sunshire or worse.

'Mother wouldn't do that.' He told himself, 'She faced down Sylphord Duraz himself, she never faltered during the war. There's no way she'd betray the King!'

'Not even for you, lad?' a mocking voice, sounding like one of the old knights serving his parents, asked him at the back of his mind. Vedran found he could not quite rebuke the voice. His mother had always been highly protective of him and his siblings…

That was all, he was sure, because he hadn't stood up to them like his father would have. Aerth Swiftblade, he knew, would have given the ruffians a terrible battle, beaten them, forced them to confess, then rescued his wife.

As a young child, Vedran hadn't seen much of his father. He had often been away, fighting the Horde. He had heard of him, though, from men who had been in his forces, from bards and merchants and knights. All told him of a brave, intelligent commander, and of a man of honour.

Then the war had been won, and his parents had been awarded a ruined city and its surrounding lands. It had been, he had learned, his mother's home, and she was very happy to return.

His father had been there often, then, erecting watchposts, leading forays against remaining orc warbands, and helping to rebuild the city. Not one knight, not one peasant, mocked his father. When he passed, peasants shouted his name in gladness, and soldiers and knights alike bowed in respect.

He also took to showing Vedran swordsmanship, and told him, some evenings, of his battles during the First War, of Grand Hamlet and Elwynn Forest, of the sack of Moonbrook and the last defence of Sunshire. The young man had then decided that this was the kind of man he wanted to be.

'Some knight I am turning out to be.' He thought to himself as he saw his bleak surroundings. 'I am not even capable of defending myself.' He tried hard not to picture the disappointment his father would show over the whole affair, assuming…

…assuming he lived to see him. There, he'd said it. He'd admitted it. Those bandits might kill him to make a point. Strangely, he felt empty rather than afraid of the idea of dying.

That was then that he heard the sound.

He turned around in time to see the wooden wall bulging strangely, until a form emerged. It was magic, of that he was certain. But what truly sent him into a fit of fear was that the form which emerged was that of an orc.

His first thought was how ugly the thing was. He'd rarely seen orcs, and when he did, they were safely behind thick walls, under watch by well-armed soldiers. He felt his blood rush out of him as he gaped.

The orc, for his part, seemed to be grunting something to himself in a language that Vedran couldn't understand. It had nothing to do with human, dwarven or elven dialects – of which his parents had taught him a few words – so he assumed it was orc speak.

Then the orc looked at him, and his eyes widened. Stories of orcish atrocities, of the many battles between his father's Alliance of Lordaeron and the Horde, surfaced in his mind as he backed into a wall, panting. The orc leaned towards him, and then grinned. Vedran's blood froze. He was going to die. He knew it. This was an orc raid. They were all going to die.

"Well met, young human." The orc mused in a rough but surprisingly gentle voice. "As hard as it may be, try not to be alarmed."

That was the last thing that Vedran expected an orc to say. Although his father had told him that some orcs had, during the Second War, acted with great honour, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He just couldn't.

"O-orr…. ORC!" he blurted, pointing at the green-skinned newcomer.

"Well, yes, young one." The orc answered, still mild, and sounding, of all things, amused, "That's right."

The young man panted harder, then forced himself off the wall. He was overcome with terror, yet he simply couldn't let the orc see it. He had to control it, be as strong as his father Aerth or his mother Eira would be. Still, his entire body trembled.

"W-will not… have… m-me… p-p-plead… S-S-Swiftblades do NOT beg!" he finally blurted, this time higher. At that moment, a hand closed on his mouth, and he struggled as the orc leaned closer.

"Well said, human, well said. You have you father's fire in you, if the stories about him are true. But don't be misled. I'm not your enemy. Far from it."

That was something Vedran couldn't make himself believe, still, there was something in the orc's eyes. He relaxed, and the orc released his grip.

"Believe it or not, young human, I'm actually here to help you and your mother." The orc mused. "Of course, you're free to disbelief."

"O-orcs helping humans?" he asked, and he cringed when his voice seemed to sneer. He knew he shouldn't be antagonizing, yet he couldn't help it.

"Yes. Hasn't happened often, has it? Nor have humans helped orcs very often, either." He sighed then, "No surprises in that. Two large-scale wars, orclings grown under the flag of hate, the same for humans. My people are actually lucky not to have been entirely killed off."

"My Father would not allow that!" Vedran growled, "My Father is an honourable Knight!"

"So I've heard. But there are degrees of 'honourable'." The orc answered, "I will end this entertaining bout with the question: If the King of Azeroth ordered your father to kill every orcs in his territory, wouldn't your father obey, because of that very honour?"

Vedran stayed silent. The question rather bothered him, but he also felt that to continue wouldn't mean much.

The orc also considered the discussion closed, as he went to the door and banged on it. There was noise outside, a cry for Vedran to stay quiet if he knew what was good for him. The orc took no notice of this, and continued to make noise. Finally, someone moved from farther off, and the orc seemed put his hands together and began to chant something, in what seemed to be neither human speak nor orc speak.

The door opened, and a man wearing a red scarf walked in, his eyes ablaze, a short sword in his hand. Vedran felt a surge of fear. The man's eyes, however, widened as soon as he saw the orc standing there.

He never had time for anything else but to gape, as the ground burst just as the orc finished chanting. What appeared to be roots or vines burst from the ground, spearing him like a piece of meat and shoving him out the door. The vines continued to surge forward as well, and cries of alarm began to echo outside.

And then screams, gasps, and sounds of battle erupted. The orc nodded, looking rather pleased with everything. He picked up the sword that the man had dropped as he died, and threw it at Vedran's feet.

"Remember this, child: hatred is never the only way two races can coexist." He mused.

And then, just like that, he was out the door. A moment later, picking up the sword, the young Swiftblade followed.

The House of Nobles. That was their goal. The King of Azeroth was too powerful to attack directly, but they could attack those powerful noble families who supported the King and the recovering process that Stormwind was going through. It wounded her very being that she was being asked to assist in its destruction.

Eira, however, had never thought she'd face the situation in which such a terrible choice would be given her: the nobles or her son would die. She only had to choose who. Van Cleef had had a certain relish in telling her so, even though he tried to appear contrite about the whole affair.

Each choice was simply abhorrent. Although she'd sometimes lied to people, bluffed people over the years, she had always felt a bit of pride in never having actually betrayed anyone. Now, she was about to betray people who trusted her, perhaps destroy everything she and her husband had worked for.

She personally knew the fact that Aerth had built House Swiftblade from a laughable thing to a powerful player largely to make himself worthy of her hand. Her comments that he had proven himself to her more than enough had meant nothing. Stubborn, stubborn man. She loved him for that as well, she supposed.

To betray the integrity of House Swiftblade was unthinkable. But the alternative…

Aerth loved his children, and took a fair amount of pride in seeing Vedran display such vigour and curiosity. But her husband hadn't been there when Vedran had been born, he had barely known the child for many years, busy as he was fighting the Horde. She couldn't – wouldn't – begrudge him that. She knew he had been fighting for Vedran's future.

'But you never raised him. You never had time.' She told herself, 'So, my husband, if the choice was given to you, what would you choose?'

An unfair question. She knew that. She had a feeling that her husband, if given the choice, would probably choose not to betray the King. She also knew the choice would likely destroy him. Loyalty to the King and the Kingdom was something he took to with all of his soul. Strangely, she felt that her son, who was beginning to sound like his father so much, would agree with him.

Then again… she knew another side of the man. She remembered the young knight who had saved her from her own foolishness, who had defied the social barriers without a care in the world. She remembered the young man who'd roused his men from their fear by mocking the orcs besieging Sunshire.

None of this helped her. The fact remained that, one way or another, she would have to make a choice, one she might never accept, or be forgiven for. And she felt that she knew what she would do.

She was loyal to her Kingdom, to her House, to her King. But she loved her son more than any of those. Surely, the Light, at least, would forgive her. Even when she wouldn't forgive herself.

'Forgive me, Aerth. It is for our son.' She mused to the empty air. She wasn't all that certain, even then, with that much at stake, that her husband would have taken that road to save their son. He loved his family – she was certain of that – but he had taken oaths. And he took those very seriously.

No. Aerth would have refused to negotiate. He'd have watched his son die, and would have died in his heart by watching it. Eira Fregar Swiftblade, as strong of will as she could feel herself to be, did not feel that sort of commitment. She was a noble, and as such, was used to compromise.

She rose to her feet, ready to do something – perhaps call the guards to speak with Van Cleef or any of their leaders, perhaps not – when she heard a noise. It was something she had grown quite accustomed to over the many years, although she had never participated in any herself : the sounds of battle.

From the cries of surprised and the suddenness of the attack itself, she quickly came to the conclusion that it was actually a raid. A lightning strike was logical, since only an army could have hopes of ever breaching such a stronghold, so deep into the mountains.

Who was it then? She listened for a moment feeling hope that it might have been a force of knights and soldiers sent by the… dubious… Katrana Prestor. It was dashed when she heard the guttural voices, the shouted oaths, the fury. No human sounded like that. Nor did any elf or gnome or dwarf. This was orc speech, ogre voices.

The Defias Brotherhood was being raided by the Horde.

Fear overtook her for a moment, memories of vast armies laying siege at Sunshire, of her parents butchered, Aerth barely managing to save her form a similar fate. She remembered the immense sea of bodies pummelling on the walls of Lordaeron's proud capital city.

She shivered, gasped, and then she forcefully clamped hard on her fear. The Horde, she remembered, was broken. What remained wasn't a vast army, but small, broken groups, the largest of which were far from Azeroth's territories. They couldn't hope to fight such battles so often. There had to be a reason.

The noise was getting closer. Fear surged again, and she found herself heaving the chair she'd been sitting on, smashing it down, and then picking up the largest piece in her hands like a club. A pitiful weapon, but she wasn't about to play the part of helplessness. If they came, she'd never leave them any choice but to kill her.

All that remained in her mind was her son, and her heart ached. 'Vedran, my dear son…' she muttered, then she stopped as something heavy nearly tore the door down. She heard orc speech on the other side. The battle continued furiously in the background.

'Very well.' She told the enemy with a voice which barely quavered. 'Come then. Let us make an end, if it comes to that.'

The door was smashed in by some unseen force. Magic, she decided. So the enemy was one of the Horde magic-users. She shivered at the thought of having to fight one of the dreaded Death Knights, and her hands shook. Still, she stood firm. Her mother had died screaming in fear. She resolved never to do so.

But it wasn't a undead creature of nightmares which entered the room. It was an orc, aged, dressed in furs and hefting a solid oaken staff. The orc looked at her for a moment, and she readied herself for the end. What happened then stunned her.

"Are you Lady Swiftblade?" The horde asked. Although his voice and accent were of orcish ancestry, the words were definitely softer and more civilized than what she'd been used to over the years. The few orcs she'd met had been violent and savage.

"Mother!" Came an happy cry, and Vedran Swiftblade stepped from behind the orc – who took no action against either her or her son – and hugged her fiercely. This effectively forced any other musings out of her mind for a moment, as she hugged him back in surprise, then in gladness.

"Vedran! My son!" she cried, "Are you alright?! How did you escape?"

"Sir Thornfeet here, helped me." He said, motioning to the orc. He seemed not to know what to do about that fact, but seemed to be willing to go along with it.

Eira looked at the orc with far more jaded views. She'd seen their violence firsthand. Her family had been slain by Horde warriors, and she had been forced into many perils because of them. However, her husband had told her, more than once, that some orcs were different, were honourable. It was hard to believe.

But did she have a choice in the matter?

"The humans defending this place are beginning to regroup. We must leave, Lady Swiftblade." The orc held out a hand. She stared at it. 'There is nothing to fear.'

"So you say. My experience with your people is not so pristine."

"I imagine. But can you afford otherwise?" he retorted, as if he could read her thoughts. "Come, lady. Let's leave this place, and talk about the debt you will owe me later on."

Eira looked at the hand again, then at her son. She heard the sounds of battle. She was no fool.

What was a mother to do? What was a lady to do? Only one sane thing, as insane as it sounded to her mind.

She took the proffered hand.

Onyxia, as a dragon, knew that she would have to put up with many boring details in order to maintain her human identity. One of these dealt with the fact that Lady Katrana Prestor, one of the most powerful nobles in the House of Nobles, had brought Lady Eira Fregar Swiftblade, another powerful noble, to Moonbrooke to investigate the Defias Brotherhood.

That, of course, hadn't been the goal. The goal had been to have Lady Eira captured, the news then carried to Dreanor, where her husband played a crucial command role in the Expedition. Aerth Swiftblade would then return in some way and, as a general, would send forces to the area, scouring it, tipping the fragile order over.

Moonbrooke and the entire region would become a suspicious land. It would then be easy to voice propositions to the House and His Majesty to sever resources. Westfall would become a den of poverty, bitterness, unlawfulness, weakening the human realm.

But all that was for later. Right now, it was necessary to maintain a mask of concern. Thus, she had insisted on taking the Knights who had followed them from Sunshire, and launching into a search, insisting on being here, ignoring their commander's suggestions that she rest… and always gently prodding which direction they should be searching.

The dragon had thus maintained a search pattern well away from the Dead Mines, and the search had turned up nothing. The Knights were becoming frustrated, morose. Lady Eira was the Lady they had pledged to protect, a pledge they had given to Lord Aerth, their old battle commander and a man they admired. To fail him, she knew, would be unacceptable to the Knights. Death would be better for them. Good.

They rode through the plains, passing through the old, shattered ruins of what must once have been a small human farm. Such ruins were a common sight in Westfall still, while they were becoming few in both Northern and Southern Elwynn.

"Ah, one more remnant of the First War." She mused to the Knight's commander.

"Aye, my Lady." The Knight said gruffly, "This place is twice-cursed. It's not recovering like everywhere else is, or so I'm told." He didn't seem interested in discussing history, only looking around himself grimly for any sign of an ambush or, better yet, his goal.

"Have heart, sir." She said with practiced compassion, "My friend, Lady Eira, is by no means weak. Odds are she is alive." Hopefully not, but humans, sometimes, can be surprising. The man grunted a vague affirmative, but seemed unconvinced.

She was about to suggest they pass by the farm and search farther off, when she heard them. Voices. In the woods. Far from the edges of human hearing, but enough for her draconic senses to make out, if barely. She fought back her shock when she recognized Lady Eira's voice. And, even more shocking, the voice of what could only by an orc.

"Thank you. We owe you freedom, and our lives. I will never forget." Eira stated in what appeared to be a rather stunned tone.

"That's just so. Remember, Lady Swiftblade. I may one day ask you to do one thing for me. Don't fear: it won't be something against your principle. It will be the right thing to do. Farewell."

She survived! And an orc was helping her! Onyxia had troubled believing what she'd just heard. An orc aiding a human. After decades of war between the two races, so much bad blood and hatred, it was something she'd never considered possible. That something like this could derail her plan was vexing! It meant that…

It means that I know that Lady Eira of the powerful House Swiftblade has ties to an orc. Very useful. She reminded herself. The hatred that the people of the Alliance – and those of recovering Azeroth in particular – had for the Horde was something she could use against that House, if it ever became too… troublesome.

"Sir Knight," she intoned, "I heard something. Voices, it seemed." This created a stir. Armour creaked, blades slid from scabbards, and newfound tension filled the group. The Knights had been on edge already. Nothing was needed to render them paranoid. She looked at the area where the voices had come from. She was certain that they had been coming closer. All that remained was to wait.

Her patience was rewarded quickly. Two humans stumbled from the forest, looking tired and somewhat dirty, but unharmed. She recognized Eira at once with her draconic eyes, and was startled to see Vedran Swiftblade, the eldest son, with her.

It didn't take long for the Knights to react. With relief, they kicked their horses and sped towards the duo. Katrana followed with them, her own face carefully showing relief for her dear friend.

"Lady Eira!" she called in what she knew to be a happy voice, "So our search was not in vain! I am delighted to see you well."

Eira gave her a look. It was friendly enough, but held just that hint of steel and suspicion. The woman had never been a fool, which was why Onyxia wanted that family removed in some way, or taken to her side. Suspicion, however, was in no way proof, and the other woman knew it. She thus returned the friendliness with tired friendliness.

"We were lucky. A fight broke out where we were detained, and we were able to slip out." Eira told them, "Captain, you went and searched for me. I thank you."

"My Lady, it was my duty, no less. And I would not have lived the shame of losing my charge to such ruffians." The Knight replied, and many of the others nodded. The tone turned to ice. "If you would tell us where you were detained, we will form a punitive force and destroy these rogues."

Eira raised a hand. "Such details can wait, good Sir. For now, let us go back to Moonbrook. We will sleep a night at the town's barracks, And then leave at first light. I wish to return to Sunshire with my son as soon as can be possible."

"Of course, my Lady. Forgive my manners. These harrowing days have made me uncouth." The knight bowed. "We have a spare horse prepared. It is yours and Lord Vedran's." The knights looked at Vedran in some stupefaction, but seemed to think better than speaking of it.

They rode back to Moonbrook without delay, and Onyxia quickly brought her horse beside Eira's. She gave Vedran a smile, which he returned with the sincerity and uncertainty which so many human children seemed to show. Amusing.

"Lord Vedran, how did you come to be here?" she asked gently. He flushed. His mother's eyes sharpened at once.

"That is… I was…" He mumbled, reddening. He did not get to go any further. Eira took over sharply.

"My son thinks he is his father: a proven warrior." she mused with acerbity, eyes flashing, "Thus he goes and finds new way to make me grey before my time. As if trying to follow your father to Dreanor was not enough, now you find a way to be captured by the Defias."

"But-!" he tried. Eira's eyes cut him off, and he subsided into a sullen silence. It was clear that there was something interesting, hidden, to this story. But she was certainly not about to reveal it to Katrana Prestor at this time.

So be it. I have other ways. And I am more patient than you can imagine.

The Kingdom of Azeroth had stood for over a thousand years. From colonists clustered around burgeoning Stormwind, to the powerful human realm of the years before the Portal, to its present state, she had been there, in disguise, amassing power, just as her father did in the North. House Prestor, unknown to the foolish humans, was actually as old as Arathor itself.

What were a few mote years, after a millennia of patience?

She would continue to gain power in the House of Nobles. Already, the recent lord of House Fordragon, the gullible Boldovar, was beginning to fall in her grasp. One day, she would also have House Swiftblade. And then…

Then, her plans could start. Her brother could have the Horde, could fool around with transparent schemes. When all was said and done, the power in this part of the continent would remain in the hands of humans, not the hands of orcs.

And she would be there to guide them in whatever direction she chose to.

They'd driven them off. Or more likely tired them out. Although the Horde forces had been numerous, their well-fortified positions on the high grounds and the later disposition of several dwarven cannons had denied the orcs and their allies any advantage. Going up the hill quickly became a bloodbath – one in which orcish blood ran more freely than human blood.

After having fought the orcs for so many years, Aerth had come to the conclusion that he felt like he was in the middle of the First War. The setting was alien, but the tactics were the same. Crude and relentless, they relied more heavily on numbers than on anything else.

Such tactics had actually worked on the armies of Azeroth, since humans had been too proud then – or perhaps simply to foolish – to stop meeting the enemy on the open field. The Alliance armies of the Second War had learned from such costly mistakes. Numbers and strength being lacking, fortification and lightning strikes had become important parts of their actions.

The Horde had also changed their tactics, becoming more cautious, learning not to attack well-fortified strongholds directly, rather preferring to circumvent it until they'd built up sufficient forces.

Not these orcs. These hadn't fought the wars, for the most part. He had seen a few groups trying intelligent manoeuvres. In general, however, the attack had lacked coordination, relying on sheer courage. That had failed, even for the Horde forces, after one too many lightning charges, one too many raids, one too many cannon shots.

Leaving several strong garrisons in place, the core of the army had then returned to Honour Hold, tired yet wearily triumphant. The Alliance Expedition had maintained it foothold. The problem was, of course, immediately addressed: how long could they maintain it and, could they move enough to maintain their hopes of thwarting whatever scheme the orcs thought of unleashing.

"War will never come to Sunshire's walls as long as I live." He mused to himself even as he strode to the meeting room. The knight beside him turned his head, puzzled. He waved any comment aside. 'I need to stop commenting to myself. I'm starting to look a little too eccentric for my taste.'

He came to the doorway leading into the meeting room, and saw Illadan Eltrass, his old friend, standing there. The elf gave him looks of mixed amusement and embarrassment. Before Swiftblade could investigate it further, his answer came from the room.

"Your mother has completely lost her senses!" The voice, belonging to Turalyon, came booming out.

"I wanted to see you, father! She said I could!" Another voice, far younger, one he had heard before, retorted.

"If this was Whitefort or Stormwind, then of course! But here?!? There are limits to indulgence!" Turalyon replied, certainly not sounding mollified in the least.

Swiftblade recognized the voices, and understood the import. However, he did feel a large amount of sympathy for Turalyon, and more than a bit of frustration at the delay. Unlike Illadan, he was not known to be all that polite when such things happened.

Consequently, ignoring the glances thrown his way, he walked into the room, his helmet under his arm, as if nothing of consequence was happening. Human, elven, and half-elven eyes looked at him. He noticed that Turalyon himself seemed oddly glad with the interruption.

"Ah, Lord Aerth!" Turalyon called. At that moment, Illadan also made his way inside. "And Lord Illadan! Just the two men I wanted to see."

"No doubt, Lord Turalyon, no doubt." The elf, as calmly and as smoothly as he ever did anything, slid into a chair at the rough conference table. Every day, Honour Hold was becoming a fixture. It had an increasing air of permanency beyond even their first base, the one now called the Armoury.

It bothered Swiftblade that they might be staying much longer. But it couldn't be helped. He didn't sit down, but went to the fireplace and leaned on the side of it. Turalyon looked back at his son, and began to argue with him all over again. The boy's stubborn streak reminded the general of his own eldest child, and he felt a pang of longing for Sunshire and the family he had living there.

Eventually, the slender boy – who looked neither fully like a human, nor fully like an elf – went away in a childish huff, followed by two elven attendants. The paladin looked as if he'd just battled through five hundred orcs in ten minutes. He slumped in a chair most uncharacteristically, and poured himself the wine lying there.

"Damn that elven woman." He muttered without venom. Actually, one could detect fondness in the tone. "She wants us to carry on raising our son in the middle of a warzone. Light, the insanity of it!"

Illadan looked away at this, something the tired Turalyon didn't see, but Swiftblade certainly did. He thought he understood the reason for it: although he and Sylvanas were clearly, deeply in love, they had no child to call their own. Children were always a subject of melancholy to the powerful elf lord. Swiftblade quickly changed the subject.

"You're a good man, Lord Turalyon. You will figure something out with your son."

"Many thanks, old friend. Would that I felt so confident."

"However, with Khadgar, Danath and Alleria, Illadan and myself are definitely the most experienced commanders you have under your command." Swiftblade noted. The paladin raised his head, while Illadan looked back. "Forgive me, but there must a be a reason for us being summoned. Something other than your son."

Turalyon shook himself. His eyes lost their confusion, their fear. He was drawing himself back into the war's aspects. Once a bit lacking in confidence, war planning had become the man's strong suit. He felt perfectly at ease within it. He clasped his hands in front of him and coughed.

"Light, General Swiftblade, so blunt." The commander of the entire Alliance Army mused, gently chiding. Seriousness returned immediately. "Blunt, but true. I received a message. During the battle, no less. And orc managed to slip it through to me."

"Something?" Swiftblade felt interested at once. Illadan looked pensive. Turalyon, for his part, simply nodded back.

"Aye. A orcish-written letter I managed to decipher with two of my most trusted scribes." He sighed, rubbing his temple. "One of the Clans, the Laughing Skull Clan, want to ally themselves with us. They think we can overthrow Shadowmoon between the two of us."

"Ridiculous." Illadan snapped.

"Why would we even consider it?" Swiftblade asked. Some orcs had been different, changed, back home. But here… here, they were always the violent beast he'd met during the First War. Certainly, nothing which could be trusted resided here.

Turalyon, however, was collected on that point. "My disdain is complete, and yet I must ask: do you remember the Death Knights who managed to force their way into the wild of Dreanor from the Portal? Yes. They carried something. Something of great power: The Book of Medhiv."

Swiftblade gritted his teeth, fighting down the surge of hatred. Medhiv. The corrupt mage who had opened the Dark Portal, caused the First and Second War, and caused so much suffering. Would he live a thousand years, he'd never forget that name… and the fact that his spellbook was reputed to be the most powerful ever written.

And that it had been stolen.

"They have it?" Illadan gasped.

"So they say, and I have no choice but to believe them." The paladin heaved a breath which seemed to come from a deep well. The distaste was evident on him. "And so, friends, here we are. You have the facts."

"Now." He continued calmly. "Tell me, old friends, comrades of so many battlefields: do we ally ourselves with orcs? Do we risk it? Do we dare not to?"

The Wetlands as of 607

The lands called the Wetlands, although long fallen under the nominal dominion of the Bronzebeard Kings in Ironforge, had never been particularly inhabited. Rather, the Three Bridges – and, recently, the Thandol Span – and the road sneaking south had been the only real sign of civilizations, aside from manned forts and outposts guarding that very same road.

Since the Second War, however, things had changed. Orc bands now prowl the lands, sometimes from Grim Batol, sometimes from isolated settlements, while Ogres and other creatures roam about as well. The Dark Iron Clan has also recently begun operations in the area.

To strengthen Alliance presence in the area, the forts have been reinforced, and a deal between King Terenas of Lordearon and King Magni of Khaz Modan has given rise to the fast-growing Menethil Habor, a nominal free city aimed at facilitating Alliance trade as well as providing a deterrent to Horde and monstrous powers in the area.