“Turalyon,” Khadgar said, equally quietly, “she’s a trained warrior. She can outfight both of us, probably. You know that.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. I know she can handle herself, normally. But…she gets careless. She gets—” His voice faltered, and Khadgar had to look away from the pain on the youth’s face.
“She puts killing orcs before her own safety,” Khadgar said. “She takes undue risks.” Turalyon nodded miserably. “Well, now we take the fight to them, Turalyon. It could be good for her. For both of you.”
Turalyon flushed slightly, but didn’t answer. His eyes were on his troops now, and he guided his horse so that he was among them.
“Sons of Lothar!” he cried. “We have faced battle before. We have faced loss, and defeat, and known victory. Now we face the unknown.” He caught Khadgar’s eye and smiled slightly. “We take the fight to them. And we stop them—so they never trouble us, or other innocent worlds, ever again. For the Alliance! For the Light!”
He lifted his hammer and a cheer rose up as the hammer began to glow with a sharp, clear white radiance. Khadgar nodded to himself. This was what both he and Anduin Lothar had sensed in Turalyon when they had first met him. It seemed a lifetime ago, now. Both the Alliance commander and the mage had known even then that this priest-turned-holy warrior would rise to the challenge. Would blend his almost innocent and inherent decency with a fierce determination to protect his people. Would stand now, at the head of an army, rallying them to cross into a completely new world. Khadgar wondered if his friend saw, really saw, how much he inspired his soldiers. And how he inspired one in particular, who was looking at him now with an all-too-rare unguarded expression on her beautiful, elven face.
Turalyon turned his horse and spurred it up the stone ramp toward the Dark Portal itself. His steed shied, resisting, but Turalyon held the reins firm and forced it on. The swirling light beckoned, and he passed through it, its greenish glow overpowering his own white light for an instant before he vanished completely between the columns. Alleria and Khadgar were right behind him. The mage wrestled with his horse and felt a curious sensation as man and beast entered the rift, a ripple of cold and a tugging feeling, as if a strong current pulled at him. A chill swept over him, and for an instant he saw blackness and stars and swirls and flashes of strange colors all mingled together. Then he was emerging, and the hot air warmed skin that had grown inexplicably cold during the brief crossing.
Bright…it was so very bright. He automatically lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. And hot, too, a dry, savage heat that struck Khadgar as being almost physical. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust—and gasped.
He stood on stone, dwarfed by a version of the portal that was as huge and elaborate as the one they’d just crossed through was perfunctory and hastily assembled. Statues of hooded men towered on either side, and the stairs led down to a second courtyard flanked by enormous, sullenly burning braziers. Two pillars topped with fire stood on either side of a strangely made road and…
The cracked, red, barren plain that stretched before them was somewhat familiar, evocative of the Blasted Lands. Even as he stared, in the distance the desiccated earth cracked open. Fire leaped upward as if a dragon were hatching, breaking through the earth as if from its shell. But Khadgar’s eyes were fixed on the sky. It was red, the deep red of fresh blood, and high above shone an angry crimson sun, its heat beating down upon them. And, Light help him, the sky, too, was familiar.
“No,” he said in a broken voice. “No,” he whispered again. “Not here! Not like this!”
“What is it?” Alleria asked him. He ignored her. It was all as it was in the vision—the sky, the land—“Khadgar! What’s wrong?”
He started, as if waking up, but the horrible scene before him did not dissipate. He shook his head and forced a wan smile. “Nothing,” he lied. Then, realizing how transparent that falsehood was, he corrected himself. “I have had…visions of this place before. I hadn’t expected—I didn’t think I would have to face them so soon. I—it overwhelmed me for a second. My apologies.”
Alleria frowned up at him, concerned, but saw that he was not going to explain further. “It is—” She closed her mouth, unable to find the words. She put a hand to her heart as if it physically hurt, and for a moment Khadgar roused from his own despair to pity her. She was an elf, a child of forests and trees and growing, healthy lands. She looked stunned, sickened—almost as sick as Khadgar felt. Out of nowhere, a wind kicked up. With no plants to anchor the soil, the greedy blast seized the dead, dusty soil and scoured them with it. They all coughed, and reached for something, anything, to cover mouths and noses and eyes.
This was it. Khadgar suddenly realized that in stepping through the portal, he had stepped forward into a destiny he had hoped would be a long time coming. In the vision, he looked as he had now—an old man. And now he was here. Damn it, I’m just twenty-two…. Am I going to die here? he thought sickly, trying to recover. I’ve hardly even lived—
The wind died down as quickly as it had come. “Ugly place,” Danath Trollbane said, coughing as he drew up alongside them. Khadgar latched onto the steady warrior’s matter-of-fact demeanor for support. “And is it me or do the Blasted Lands look a lot like this, as well?”
Khadgar nodded. It was good to have something else to focus on. “Their, uh—this world was leaking into ours through the rift. And whatever caused this damage—I suspect it was their warlocks and the dark magic they wield—began affecting ours as well.” He forced himself to analyze their surroundings with a dispassionate eye. It was not just dead, it looked like this world had been sucked dry. What had the orcs done to this place?
“We managed to halt the process on Azeroth, thank the Light. But clearly the land here has suffered the same injury, only for much longer. I suspect this world was far more benign once.”
Alleria frowned. “The road…it—” She went suddenly pale, then her lovely face contorted in anger. “Those…monsters…”
Turalyon had cantered up beside her. “What is it?”
“The road…” Alleria seemed unable to find the words. She tried again. “It’s…it’s paved with bones.”
They all fell silent. Surely Alleria was mistaken. The road she indicated was no small path. It was a road proper, meant for dozens to ride abreast. For huge engines of war to traverse. It was wider than the bridge over the water that led into Stormwind, and so long that it trailed out of sight.
For it to be paved with bones would mean that hundreds…no, no…thousands of bodies had—
“Merciful Light,” a young man whispered. He’d gone starkly white, and murmurs rose behind him. Even as the troops registered this horrific information, the enemy showed itself. Only a few orcs had been near the Dark Portal when they’d passed through. Khadgar had hoped they’d be the only ones they’d fight upon entering the orcs’ world, but those few had had time to summon reinforcements. Along a ridge beyond the road of the dead, Khadgar could now see dozens of orcs, their weapons glinting in the harsh red light.
For the first time since this whole nightmare with the rift had started, Khadgar thought the soldiers might falter.
“It’s a small army,” he said softly. Orcs had been in his vision as well, orcs standing on a ridge, bellowing and snarling and cursing.
“We have an army of our own,” Alleria said, looking at Turalyon.
“We do,” Turalyon replied, emotion making his voice crack. He too had been shaken by their first sight of this world, but now he wore a look of passionate resolve. “An army that will stand between the orcs and those they would harm. That will not stand by and watch its own world suffer, as this poor place has.” He looked back at his troops.
“Sons of Lothar,” he shouted. “This is the fight we were made for! More than ever before, we fight for our world now! We will not permit them to do to us or others what they have done here!” His voice carried, clear and pure and strong, as bright and shining
as the hammer he now lifted. “For Stormwind! For Lordaeron, and Ironforge, and Gnomeregan. For Azeroth!”
So be it, Khadgar thought, and followed his general into the fray.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ner’zhul sat upon his throne in Hellfire Citadel, the brooding, nightmarish fortress the Horde had built shortly after the clans united.
He loathed this place.
It was hideous, a disturbing, disjointed creation of jagged angles, dark stone, and corridors and walkways that twined in and over one another like a maddened snake. If it bore any resemblance to a traditional orc village, which was a collection of small buildings, huts, and short towers, it was only the most twisted distortion of such a wholesome thing, much as the orcs themselves had become twisted and distorted. Whereas orc huts were fabricated from green branches and covered in bark, these buildings were dark stone banded with rough iron. Strange support pillars rose around them, topped with gleaming steel spikes, as if colossal clawed hands were erupting from the cracked ground to grip the structures. The twisting, connecting paths extended from one roof to the next, more as if the buildings had melted and shifted than as if the paths were intentional. At the back rose a taller tower with a peaked roof. It was here that they had shaped a throne room for Blackhand, the Shadow Council giving a puppet ruler a pretend throne. Now that throne belonged to Ner’zhul, the new Horde leader in truth, and the rest of the abomination that was the stronghold with it.
Ner’zhul did not glance out through the arching windows toward the portal. He had no desire to be struck, again, by how desolate his once-fertile world had become. But really, there was no avoiding it, was there? Absently his fingers went to touch the white-painted skull on his face. Death. The death of his world, the death of his people, the death of his own idealism. Blood was on his green, gnarled hands; the blood of so many innocents. The blood of orcs who had trusted him, whom he had inadvertently led astray.
You must stop thinking of it that way, came a voice inside his head. He ignored it. It was easier to ignore the voice of the dead Gul’dan when he was not in physical contact with the skull. Yet even as he vowed not to give it heed, he cast a glance at it now as it sat on a small table. Torchlight danced off the yellowing bone. He found himself speaking to it, as if Gul’dan could hear him. Which, in a way, was true.
“We did much harm, you and I. Deathbringers, doom callers, both of us. But now we can try to save them. And your skull, my old apprentice…your skull will be part of that. Dead you are better use to the orcs than you were alive. Back you have come, to your old master. Maybe together we can give them a new chance.”
But that’s not what you really want, is it, my master?
Ner’zhul blinked. “Of course it is! I have ever sought to aid my people! That I have become death to them…it sears me. It is why I wear this.” He touched the paint on his face yet again. Skulls: the one before him, the one he adorned his face with. Death’s heads.
Perhaps it once was, and Gul’dan’s voice crept into his mind, soft, soothing. But you are greater than that, mighty Ner’zhul. Together, we can—
A scuffling sound drew his attention, and Ner’zhul reluctantly tore his gaze from the skull, leaving the latest debate with its owner unfinished. Gorefiend stood before him, along with a human Ner’zhul did not recognize, a tall, slender man with dark curls and a neat beard. The stranger wore sumptuous clothing and moved with the manner of a leader, all grace and confidence. There was something about him that did not ring true, and Ner’zhul frowned, sensing the power around the stranger.
“I have the artifacts,” Gorefiend announced without preamble, holding up a large sack. Ner’zhul felt hope surge inside him and waved the death knight forward eagerly. Gorefiend approached the throne, pulling each of the items in turn from the sack and placing them in his ruler’s lap.
Ner’zhul stared down at them, lifting each one to admire it. A large, heavy book, its red cover trimmed in brass and emblazoned with a raven in flight. A crystal the size of a man’s head, its center faceted like a star and edged in deepest violet. And a long, slender scepter, silver and wood with a large white gem glittering at its peak.
“Yes,” Ner’zhul whispered, resting his hands atop the three items. He could feel the power radiating from them, immense power—power enough to tear open the space between worlds. “Yes, with these we will create new portals. We will save the Horde. We must begin work at once! It will take some time to craft a spell of this magnitude, and everything must be exact.” He allowed himself a smile. “But with these three things, we cannot fail.”
Gorefiend bowed. “I told you this would work,” he reminded Ner’zhul. He stepped back a pace and turned toward the human he had brought with him.
“We could not have retrieved the artifacts if not for the black dragonflight. Deathwing is their father and leader.”
Deathwing! Ner’zhul’s hands tightened on the arms of his throne. Skulls, death knights…and now before him a mighty being even named for death. Ner’zhul could see the dragon’s true form wrapped around his human shell like wisps of smoke, and shivered inwardly. Deathwing’s lips curved in a smile that was not at all warming, and he bowed with a hint of mockery. Ner’zhul tried to calm his racing heart. This, too, he had dreamed of—this shadow of death.
“He freely gave us the aid of his children in exchange for passage through the Dark Portal for himself, his kin, and certain cargo he provided,” Gorefiend said.
“Cargo?” Ner’zhul found his voice, though he winced slightly at how treble it sounded in his ears. “What manner of cargo?”
“Nothing you need worry yourself about,” Deathwing replied in the smooth, cool voice. It carried the subtlest hint of a deadly serious warning. For an instant the torches flickered as if a sharp wind stirred them, and the dragon’s shadow rose up behind him, filling the room.
You see? Even now you fly with the dragon, all unwitting. You fly with the shadow of death, Ner’zhul. Will you not embrace it?
Ner’zhul wanted to clap his hands to his ears, but he knew it would be a futile gesture. He took a deep breath and forced himself to be calm.
“I thank you for your aid, Deathwing. We are grateful.”
“Lord Deathwing.”
“Of course—Lord Deathwing.” The human-seeming dragon stood there, not acknowledging the subtle dismissal. “Is there anything else we could help you with?” Ner’zhul said. He wanted this creature gone.
The dragon-man considered, lips pursed, long fingers stroking his beard. Ner’zhul got the distinct impression that his pondering was feigned.
“That is generous of you to offer, noble Ner’zhul,” he replied after a moment, managing to twist the words so that they sounded sarcastic. “And I would be lying if I said the skull you have over there did not intrigue me greatly.” The words were polite, diplomatic, but they surged with barely restrained power, and the dragon’s eyes glowed for an instant with a fire that put the torches to shame.
Ner’zhul gulped. Did Deathwing hear Gul’dan’s voice too?
Deathwing chuckled softly and extended a well-manicured hand. A ring glittered in the light. “Come, good Ner’zhul. It’s my understanding that with these trinkets I helped your friend Gorefiend obtain, you have all the power you need to achieve your goals. The skull is not necessary to you anymore. And I want it.”
Ner’zhul fought back rising panic. While what Deathwing said was true, he did not want to hand over the skull. Gul’dan had been his apprentice, after all, and if there was any knowledge still locked in that yellowed relic, surely no one had a better right to it than Ner’zhul.
“I grow impatient,” said the silky smooth voice of the dragon named for death. “I don’t think you want me to be impatient, Ner’zhul. Do you?”
Ner’zhul shook his head and found his voice. “Please, take the skull, if you wish it. It is a trifling thing.” A lie, of course, and both he and the dragonlord knew it. Deathwing smiled, showing sharp teeth, and strode to the sk
ull. His eyes widened as it came into contact with his flesh, and for an instant Ner’zhul saw spikes and scales and metal plates where flesh had been, and smoldering red eyes in a long, triangular head.
“I must say, I’m pleased with our…partnership. It seems to benefit us both.” The voice was warm, almost gloating. “Know that, if you should have need of us, you have but to call. I shall leave you for now. Several of my children will remain behind and heed all your commands as if they were my own.” He nodded to both Ner’zhul and Gorefiend, then turned and exited the room, the skull in his hand, draped beneath a portion of his long cloak.
The orc shaman and the death knight watched him leave. “I wish he had not taken the skull,” Gorefiend said after they were sure the dragon had gone. “Still, if we do not need it, it is a small price to pay for the artifacts he helped us acquire.”
Ner’zhul took a deep breath, as if the air in the room was suddenly breathable again. “Do you have any idea what he wants it for?” he asked Gorefiend.
“None,” the death knight admitted reluctantly. Their eyes met. In Gorefiend’s glowing red depths, Ner’zhul saw something that alarmed him almost as much as the dragon’s presence had: worry.
“Time grows short, and our window is narrow. Let us make all preparations as swiftly as we may.” They needed to leave this dead world before it was too late.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Khadgar found he liked looking at the night sky in this world.
It wasn’t red.
He sighed and adjusted his telescope, focusing in on a particularly bright star. It was a tiny bit closer to the constellation he’d dubbed Turalyon’s Hammer. Now, if it would just—
“How much longer?”
Khadgar started, began to slip, and grabbed a handhold on the roof. “Damn it, Alleria, quit sneaking up on me like that!”
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