The humans fought bravely, Grom would grant them that. And some showed skill at arms. But they lacked an orc’s size and strength, and he found it an easy matter to overpower a human fighter and carve him open right through the strange metal shirt they all wore. For a sweet time he let the bloodlust take control, hacking and slashing savagely about him, caring for nothing more than the spatter of blood, the reek of death, and the cries of the wounded and dying. How glorious to again kill without concern or guilt! No fellow orcs fell beneath Gorehowl, only the pink-skinned humans, one after another after another, and their fear and screams were intoxicating.
His blood pounded in his veins, his vision had strange spots of color around the edges, and he was gasping for breath, but Grom had never felt more alive. Good. It was good. There came a momentary lull in the fighting, and he glanced around. Everywhere he looked he saw human corpses. Dozens of them, their eyes staring, fear twisting their features, blood still pumping from…
Grom frowned, the bloodlust starting to retreat. Yes, dozens of corpses, but the human he had noted, the one with the golden chest plate—where was he?
He growled and shook his black head, forcing the bloodlust back so he could listen to his warrior’s instincts. Ignoring the shouts and cheers of his warriors, Grom ran toward the edge of the valley. Then he stopped and listened. Yes, he could definitely hear hoofbeats, and they were receding fast. Someone had survived, and had the sense to ride away.
Back toward the fortress.
Returning to the battlefield, Grom found Gorefiend. Seizing his arm, Grom shouted, “One of them escaped! Their leader, I think. He is headed for the fortress!”
Gorefiend nodded. “Follow him,” he replied, yelling as Grom had been to hear over the din, “and keep the Alliance forces in that fortress busy. We need to get to the artifacts. We should be back in a matter of days.”
Grom nodded. “You need not worry,” he promised. “I will do my duty. See to it you do yours.”
The death knight laughed and turned away without further reply, dismissing the Warsong clan leader. He extended his mailed hands, and a bolt of darkness exploded from them to flatten two horses and their riders. Grom ground his teeth together. He disliked Gorefiend, and all the death knights, in fact—they had already lived their lives and had returned from death itself, trapped now in human bodies. How could such unnatural creatures be trusted? But Ner’zhul had approved Gorefiend’s plan, and so Grom had no choice but to go along with it. He just hoped the death knight was right, and that these strange items they were so doggedly hunting really would allow Ner’zhul to save their people.
In the meantime, he had orders he was only too happy to obey. “A handful of you, stay here,” he instructed his warriors. “The rest of you, and the other clans, come with me.” He grinned and raised Gorehowl high. “We have a fortress to take!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Muradin Bronzebeard, brother to King Magni and ambassador to the human realm of Lordaeron, hurried along the corridors of the royal palace. “All these twists an’ turns an’ nooks and crannies,” the dwarf muttered to himself. If he remembered correctly, the spiral staircase that would take him up to the king’s private apartments and balconies was around here somewhere. He seemed to recall that if he ducked through this armory hall, he’d—
“Hoy!”
Muradin jumped slightly even as he realized the voice belonged to a child. His grin was hidden by his thick, bushy beard as he peered around a corner to see young Arthas standing in front of a suit of armor on a small pedestal. The prince was all of twelve now, a right bonnie young lad, all smiles and golden curls and rosy cheeks. At the moment, though, Prince Arthas looked very serious and had a wooden sword pointed at the throat of a suit of armor.
“Think you to pass here, vile orc?” Arthas cried. “You are in Alliance lands! I will show you mercy this once. Begone and never return!”
Although Muradin was hungry, and although he was late, he found himself watching, smiling. This was what they’d all fought for, was it not? He and Magni and their brother Brann, and the humans Lothar, rest his soul, and young Turalyon—they’d fought together against the orcs to save Ironforge toward the end of the Second War. And then Muradin and Brann had gone with the humans to the Dark Portal, to watch its destruction with satisfaction. Keeping the wee ones safe. Buying a future for all of them.
Arthas stiffened. “What? You will not depart? I have given you a chance, but now, we fight!”
With a fierce cry, the young prince charged. He was wise enough not to actually attack the ancient suit of armor, which would no doubt incur his father’s disapproval, but set to his imaginary foe with vigor a few paces away. Muradin’s grin faded. What was this? Who in the world had been teaching this boy? Look how wide and uncontrolled that pretend parry was! And the grip—ach, wrong, all wrong. He frowned terribly as after a particularly energetic swing, Arthas lost his grip on the wooden sword and it flew across the room to clatter loudly on the floor.
Arthas gasped and looked around, to see if the sound had drawn attention. His cheeks turned bright pink as he met Muradin’s gaze.
“Um…Ambassador…I was just…”
Muradin coughed, as embarrassed for the boy as Arthas himself was. “I’m lookin’ fer yer father, boy. Can ye direct me? This infernal place has too many turns.”
Arthas pointed to a stairway on his left. Muradin nodded and hurried up the twisting steps, anxious to be away from the scene.
He arrived just in time to hear Thoras Trollbane bellowing—which, he mused, was hardly anything new.
“Trade? With you? You’re double damned, no-good Horde sympathizers!”
What was going on? Muradin burst onto the balcony, expecting to see…well, he wasn’t sure what, but it certainly wasn’t a small green being with large, bat-like ears and eyes that were currently wide with apprehension. He was completely bald and wore trousers, a crisp shirt and waistcoat, and a monocle that had popped out and was now swinging wildly from a chain attached to his person.
“No, no no no!” the green creature gasped in a strained, shrieking voice, waving his hands frantically. He stood about eye level with the breakfast table at which Trollbane and King Terenas were seated and fumbled with the monocle. “You’ve got me all wrong! It’s not like that at all!”
“Isn’t it, Krix?” The mildness with which Terenas uttered the words told Muradin that nothing of real threat was going on. The king reached for a piece of bread and began to butter it.
“No!” Krix exclaimed, looking offended. “Well. One trade prince, yes. Did. That.” He coughed slightly. “Allied with the Horde. But! Only one very foolish prince, and even he came to his senses after the Second War. But the rest of the goblins have come to realize that it’s much better to remain neutral. Much better, for you, for us, for everyone! Free trade thrives that way and we all benefit!”
Muradin scowled. He knew what manner of creature he was facing now—a goblin. “What’s this wee green moneygrubber doing at our breakfast table, Terenas?” Muradin asked, shouldering past the creature.
Before the king could answer, the goblin burst out, “Krix Wiklish, pleasure to meet you. I see you’re a dwarf!”
“Brilliant observation,” Trollbane growled.
“Perhaps your people would like to enter a trade agreement! These two humans don’t seem so keen on it. I mean—think about it!” Krix smiled ingratiatingly, the effect marred only by the sharpness of his teeth. “You like to mine—why, we like to tear down trees! It’s a perfect business relationship! Our shredders can clear land—”
“Thank you, Krix, that will be enough,” Terenas interrupted. “Now that Ambassador Muradin has arrived, we have business to attend to. I’ll talk again with you later this afternoon and look at the papers you promised me.”
“What?” Muradin scowled at Terenas. “This wee bugger does deals with both sides, Terenas. I’d sooner trust a—hey!”
Krix froze, the apricot scone he had sna
gged halfway to his mouth. He smiled weakly. Muradin glared. Within a month of his arrival the dwarf had been on a first-name basis with every one of the palace chefs, and he had gone to extra efforts to secure the friendship of the pastry chefs. Such overtures were now bearing sweet, delicious fruit, if the scones were any indication. And now this goblin was about to devour his pastries!
“King Terenas asked ye tae leave,” he said. Krix nodded. The monocle fell out again. He popped the scone into his mouth, bowed low, and scurried off.
“Ruddy parasite, that one is,” growled Muradin.
“But amusing,” Terenas said. “And his ideas do have merit. But now that you are here, Ambassador, I fear we must talk of less amusing things. Such as the situation with King Perenolde.”
“King! Bah. The word sits ill in my mouth. It’s an outrage!” Trollbane cried. He slammed a fist down on the table, making cups and flagons and plates jump. “He betrays us all, damn near destroys us, and this is all he gets?” His long face set in a deep scowl. “I say prison, if not outright execution!”
“Aye, I’d not be keepin’ traitors in gilded cages meself,” said Muradin. He did not mince words; he said what was on his mind outright and didn’t worry about whom it might offend. Muradin knew that some of the Alliance rulers found that combination distressing, but he also knew that both Terenas and his old friend Trollbane found it refreshing.
The three sat at a small table on one of the palace’s higher balconies that overlooked the lake just beyond the city, with the mountains forming a backdrop beyond. It was a stunning view, but it also served to ground their discussion, for it was through those same mountains that Orgrim Doomhammer had led his Horde, thanks to the treachery of Alterac’s ruler, Aiden Perenolde. After the war Terenas had led Alliance troops into Alterac, declaring martial law and taking Perenolde, the fellow Trollbane had been ranting against, into custody. But Terenas had simply placed the former king under house arrest, confining him to his palace and the rest of his family to close watch. Nothing more had been done with them since then.
Trollbane, for one, was not satisfied. As Perenolde’s closest neighbor, he had long been forced to weather the Alterac king’s wily schemes, and it had only been Trollbane’s quick thinking and equally quick action that had sealed the mountain passes and cut off a portion of the orcish Horde. Otherwise the entire force would have flowed down onto the plains and across the lake toward Capital City itself, and most likely the city would have fallen.
“I agree, he deserves a far worse fate,” Terenas said carefully, clearly trying to soothe his friend’s temper. Muradin reached for a scone and a hard-boiled egg. “But he is, or at least was, a sovereign king,” Terenas continued. “We cannot simply exile him, or imprison him—not without making every other king worry that we will do the same to them if they disagree with us on anything.”
“We will, if they turn traitor like he did!” Trollbane argued, but he soon settled down. He was far from stupid, Muradin knew; that gruff exterior hid a sharp mind.
“Aye, it’s a tricky issue,” Muradin said, deciding to help himself to another pastry. “Ye canna be dropping him off a cliff, for it’ll lose ye the trust of yer other fellows, but ye canna leave him to get away with it, either.”
“We need to force him to abdicate,” Terenas pointed out yet again—this was not the first time they’d had this discussion. “Once he’s no longer king, we can try him and execute him as just another Alliance noble.” He tugged at his beard. “The problem is, he’s refusing.”
Trollbane snorted. “Of course he is! He knows that means his death! But we have to do something, and soon. Right now he’s got too much freedom, and that’s bound to cause trouble.”
Terenas nodded. “It has certainly sat for too long,” he agreed. “Something must be done about Alterac, especially with these new problems brewing.” He sighed. “The last thing we need is to fight another war while worrying about betrayal again.”
“And what of the lad?” Muradin asked, flicking a stray crumb from his majestic bronze beard. “Will he no be tryin’ for the throne?”
“Aliden, you mean?” Trollbane replied. He snorted. “Cut from the same cloth as his father.”
“I don’t care for young Aliden much myself,” Terenas admitted. “He was far too pampered as a youth—he has never known hardship or travail, and has never faced danger. I fear he has no leadership skills, either. Yet what grounds have we to deny him the throne? He is Aiden’s heir, Alterac’s crown prince—if his father does abdicate, the crown falls to him.”
“There’s no proof he knew of his father’s treachery,” Trollbane said grudgingly. “Not that being ignorant is much better than being underhanded, but at least he has that in his favor.”
Just then a servant appeared at the door. Muradin frowned, fearing that the pesky goblin wanted to talk to them. Instead, the servant had good news. “Lord Daval Prestor wishes an audience, Your Majesty,” he told Terenas.
“Ah, send him up, by all means, Lavin,” Terenas said. He turned to Trollbane and Muradin. “Have you both met Lord Prestor?”
“Aye, and it’s a fine man he is,” Muradin replied. “And much to his credit that he’s survived as well as he has, with all he’s faced.” Trollbane nodded his agreement.
Lord Prestor had been dealt a harsh hand by fate, Muradin reflected as he bit into the egg. He’d never heard of the man until recently, of course—he didn’t much follow all the twists and turns of human nobility—but from what he’d been told, Prestor had been ruler of a tiny domain deep in the mountains of Lordaeron. He could trace his ancestry back to the royal house of Alterac and was a distant cousin of Perenolde’s. Prestor’s entire realm had fallen to a dragon attack during the Second War, and he and a handful of close family alone had escaped. The first anyone had heard of the man or his realm had been a shocking introduction—Prestor had staggered all the way to Capital City without servants or guards, indeed with little more than the clothes on his back and his good name. His lineage had earned him admittance into the noble circles and his engaging personality had won him friends, the three at the table among them. It had been Prestor’s suggestion to pass martial law in Alterac, and not only Terenas but the rest of the Alliance had agreed at once that it was a fine albeit temporary solution.
The man in question stepped onto the balcony a moment later and executed a graceful and deep bow, his black curls gleaming almost blue in the warm early light. “Your Majesties,” Prestor murmured, his rich baritone carrying easily across the small space. “And noble Ambassador. How good to see you all again.”
“Indeed it is,” said Terenas jovially. “Sit and join us. Would you care for some tea?”
“The apricot scones are particularly fine today,” Muradin offered, covering his mouth with his hand as he inadvertently sprayed some crumbs. Something about Prestor’s characteristic tidiness always made the dwarf feel a bit…rustic.
“Many thanks, my lords.” Prestor seated himself gracefully, though not before using his napkin to quickly dust off his seat, and poured a cup of tea. Muradin offered him the plate of scones, but Prestor smiled, holding up a manicured, uncallused hand in polite refusal. “I hope I am not intruding?”
“Not at all, not at all,” Terenas assured him. “In fact, your timing is excellent. We were just discussing the matter of Alterac.”
“Ah yes, of course.” Prestor took an appreciative sip of tea. “No doubt you have heard about young Isiden?” He seemed surprised at the blank looks he received in response. “One of Lord Perenolde’s nephews, little more than a youth still.”
“Ah, yes. Ran off to Gilneas, didn’t he?” Trollbane asked.
“Indeed he did, shortly before you declared martial law throughout Alterac. Rumors say he is hoping to rally support there for his own bid for the throne.”
“Greymane mentioned something of that,” Terenas recalled. “But he has not met with the boy, or encouraged his suit in any way.”
Prestor shook
his head. “He is noble indeed, King Greymane,” he mused softly, “to overlook something which could so easily work to his benefit. All he would need to do is back Isiden for the throne and Gilneas would gain a direct stake in Alterac’s welfare—and no doubt favored status through the kingdom’s many mountain passes.”
Muradin scratched at his beard. “Aye, that’d be a hard one ta pass up,” he agreed.
Terenas and Trollbane exchanged glances. Greymane was canny enough not to miss such an opportunity. Yet he claimed he’d not spoken with the boy. Had he lied? Or was he playing a more subtle game?
“What do you think should be done with Alterac?” Terenas asked Prestor.
“Why do you ask me, sire?”
“An outsider’s perspective is useful, and we value your opinion.”
Prestor colored slightly. “Truly? You honor me, thank you. Well…I think you should claim it for your own, Your Majesty. You are the leader of the Alliance, after all, and took the brunt of the costs for the last war. Surely you are due a reward for all your efforts?”
Terenas chuckled. “No thank you,” he said, holding up a hand in mock horror. “I have more than enough to handle here in Lordaeron—I’ve no desire to double my troubles by taking on a second kingdom!” Muradin knew he had considered the idea, of course, and from some vantages it held merit. But the troubles it would cause, not least of them among his fellow rulers, would far outweigh the benefits, at least to Terenas’s mind.
“How about you then, Your Majesty?” Prestor suggested, turning to the Stromgarde king. “Your quick action stopped Perenolde’s treachery. I well know you lost many men defending those mountain passes from the orcs.” A shadow of pain flickered across the young noble’s face, and all three of his companions winced slightly, knowing exactly where his thoughts had led him. Maybe that was why he was so meticulous about his person. If he’d been forced to flee a city that had been destroyed by dragonfire, walking for ages in the same filthy clothes, Muradin mused, maybe he’d be a bit of a dandy now too.
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