Beyond the Dark Portal

by Aaron Rosenberg

  It was time. They had gotten as far as stealth would take them. Turalyon took a deep breath and raised his hammer high over his head.

  “Sons of Lothar!” he shouted, the power of the Holy Light magnifying his voice so it carried to everyone under his command. “For the Alliance—for the Light!”

  His soldiers roared behind him, and several hundred throats uttered their own battle cries. Turalyon swung the hammer down and forward, and the charge began.

  Some of the rearmost orcs heard his shout and turned, only to be trampled by the surging horses. Others were taken unawares, slain before they could even see the threat racing up from behind. From the fortress men cheered as Turalyon and his forces swept forward, laying about them with hammers and axes and swords. Alleria and her rangers fired arrow after arrow, drawing and nocking with inhuman speed, their aim unerring, their horses never breaking stride. In a surprisingly short time Turalyon had won through to Nethergarde’s enormous front gates, which swung open as he approached. Turalyon hesitated, looking back over the battle. His eyes met Alleria’s. He gestured toward the gate. She frowned slightly—she was as reluctant as he to leave the thick of battle, but they were the leaders of their units and she knew, as he did, that they should speak with the commander of the keep as soon as they could.

  When she nodded, Turalyon spurred his steed through the narrow gap, crushing an orc that tried to follow. Alleria was beside him, close enough that her leg brushed against his, and then the gates shut again behind them.

  “Ah, good, Alleria—you’ve brought Turalyon to us just in time.” Turalyon turned toward the speaker and smiled as he recognized Khadgar. Roughly they embraced; Turalyon had missed the friend he’d grown to so like and admire as they worked together through the Second War. He wished they were not reuniting under these circumstances. Alleria gave the mage a curt nod.

  “I came as fast as I could,” Turalyon said. He spied another man he recognized, and he smiled in relief. “Danath,” he greeted his second-in-command. “I am glad to see you’re safe.” He glanced around. “But…where are your men?”

  “Dead,” Danath replied curtly.

  “By the Light…all of them?” Turalyon whispered. Danath had taken fully half the warriors of Stormwind. Danath gritted his teeth at the words.

  “The orcs had a nice little trap ready for us when we reached the valley. They slaughtered my boys before they could react.” Danath’s voice cracked ever so slightly. “My boys,” he had called them. Turalyon realized Danath blamed himself for the deaths. “They sacrificed themselves that I might reach here and warn Khadgar of the Horde’s approach.”

  “They did the right thing. And so did you,” Turalyon assured his friend and subordinate. “It is an awful thing, to lose the men under your command, but alerting Nethergarde was the first priority.” He frowned. “Khadgar—we need to figure out why they’re attacking now.”

  “It’s obvious—they need to get past us to reach the rest of Azeroth,” Khadgar replied, but Turalyon shook his head.

  “No, that doesn’t make sense. Think about it. They lack the numbers to take this keep, and they must know it. I’m willing to bet this is not the entire Horde—it can’t be. So where are the rest? Why attack with only a partial army?”

  Khadgar’s white brows drew together over his youth’s eyes. “You raise an excellent point.”

  “One way to find out,” Danath said brusquely. “Bring me an orc, and believe me, I’ll get out of him what we want to know.” The way he said it and the set of his jaw made Turalyon flinch. He saw in Danath’s face an echo of Alleria’s single-minded hatred of the orcs. For all their brutality, for all the pain and damage and hurt to this world they had caused, he could not help but pity whatever captive Danath Trollbane took it upon himself to question. He only hoped the orc would speak quickly—for its sake, and their own.

  They were waiting for his approval. He nodded reluctantly and turned to Alleria, but before he could speak she had hurried up one of the towers, anxious to be doing something, anything. She called down the order, waited for the reply, then grinned fiercely.

  “It will not take long,” she said. Turalyon expected her to climb back down. Instead she stayed where she was, nocking an arrow to her long, elegant bow, taking aim, and joining in the battle from that vantage point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why attack now?” he asked yet again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And that was?” Turalyon prompted.

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

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

  Beside him Khadgar seemed stricken as well. “Turalyon…I need that book! To close the portal!”

  “What?” Turalyon cried.

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER TEN

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

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

  “What, did you think I would not return?”

  “No, of course I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I am honored,” Gorefiend started to say, but Deathwing silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand. His eyes glittered like banked coals as he continued,

  “Don’t get too full of yourself, death knight. I do not do it to show you respect, but to ensure success. My plans will come to naught if you fail. I suggest you don’t, not if you wish to remain alive—well, at least as alive as you are now.”

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

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