Beyond the Dark Portal

by Aaron Rosenberg

  “I will make arrangements for us to depart at once then,” Kilrogg said.

  “Depart? Where are we going?” Kargath asked as he stomped into the throne room. The Shattered Hand chieftain had a broken arrow shaft protruding from his left shoulder. He reached up now and tore it out with a grunt. Ner’zhul had put Kargath in charge of the attacks against the Alliance stronghold, and the fool insisted upon leading many of the skirmishes himself. Most of the time they never even faced any of the humans directly—the Alliance archers rained death down upon them from above until Kargath got fed up and signaled the retreat. But at least it kept the Alliance occupied—and Kargath as well.

  “I must go to the Black Temple when the stars align to cast the spell and open the new portals,” Ner’zhul explained, rolling the scroll and tucking it securely inside the pouch hanging from his belt. He rose from his throne and patted it absently. It was not the most comfortable seat he had ever had, but it was certainly the most impressive. He would have a new one crafted on whatever world they went to next.

  “I will gather the troops,” Kargath replied, turning to go, but Ner’zhul stopped him.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet. Summon Dentarg and Gorefiend instead. I will speak with the four of you here, and give you each your orders.” Kargath hesitated, and Ner’zhul barked, “Now!” Kargath raised his scythe-blade hand in salute and hurried from the room.

  “I will send word to Hellscream,” Kilrogg said, and turned to leave.

  “No.”

  Kilrogg turned slowly, eyeing Ner’zhul. “They are still on Azeroth. We need to give Grom and his clan orders as well.”

  “No, we do not. Grom Hellscream already has his orders. He is part of this plan as well.” At Kilrogg’s look of unease, Ner’zhul drew himself up to his full height. “You do not doubt my wisdom, do you, Kilrogg?”

  The moment dragged out, heavy with tension, but Kilrogg eventually inclined his head. “Of course not, shaman.”

  “Go gather your warriors,” Ner’zhul said to Kilrogg after Kargath had gone. “Tell them to make ready. We will depart shortly.”

  Kilrogg nodded and left as well, and Ner’zhul began pacing the room. He wondered if the bomb had worked as Gorefiend assured him it would. It must have; Grom had not charged through, red eyes blazing, demanding blood. That was well. Hellscream had always been a difficult one to manage, but he had served his purpose. He was no longer necessary.

  Kilrogg returned shortly, a simple nod confirming that his warriors would be ready. Gorefiend arrived a few minutes later, and both Kargath and Dentarg were right behind him.

  “Good,” Ner’zhul said when all his lieutenants were present. “I have completed the spell,” he told Gorefiend and Dentarg, and the two smiled.

  “I knew you could do it, master!” Dentarg said.

  “You will be going to the Black Temple, then?” Gorefiend asked, and his smile widened to a grin at both Ner’zhul’s and Dentarg’s surprise. Ner’zhul realized he should have expected this. Gorefiend had been one of the most promising young shaman he had seen, in terms of ability and perceptiveness if not empathy, and he had grown into a powerful, confident, clever warlock even before his death. Since returning as a death knight, he had only grown in strength and cunning. He would become a danger soon.

  “Yes. It is the ideal place to cast such a spell.”

  “I can have the Horde warriors ready by nightfall,” Kargath reported. “We will leave behind a small force to man the walls here, and the rest will protect you along your way.”

  But Gorefiend shook his head. “The Alliance won’t fall for our ruse much longer. And when they realize we have only been striking to keep them pinned up in their hold, they will attack with their full strength.”

  Ner’zhul nodded—he had already guessed as much himself. “You will remain here, with your clan,” he instructed Kargath. “Hold off the Alliance forces when they attack, while we go ahead to the Black Temple.” He frowned. “I will need time. You must delay them as much as possible. If you survive, meet us there.”

  Kargath paled slightly, then straightened and nodded. “The plains before these walls will be piled high with the bodies of their dead!” he promised, raising his scythe-hand. He nodded to the other three, and then turned on his heel and stalked off. They could hear him shouting orders once he’d left the room.

  “They cannot win,” Dentarg commented after a moment.

  “They don’t have to,” Ner’zhul replied. “All he has to do is keep the Alliance from following us long enough for me to complete the spell.” He shrugged. “This citadel is strong, and his Shattered Hand warriors are tough. They will put up a good fight, and the rest of our people will honor their memory on all the worlds we conquer in their name.”

  “Of course.” Dentarg took the subtle rebuke with only a slight wince. “I do not doubt Kargath’s loyalty, or the prowess of his warriors. He will fight to the end.”

  “Yes.” Ner’zhul eyed the Shadowmoon ogre mage. “And you will fight with him.”

  “What?” This time Dentarg rocked back in surprise. “But master, you will need me at the Black Temple! My place is at your side!”

  Sudden fury welled up inside Ner’zhul, hot and pure. “Your place is wherever I tell you it is!” He snarled, his voice deepening with his anger.

  Dentarg’s eyes widened. “Your face…,” he murmured, cringing back, fear and shock on his own visage. “The skull…!”

  The moment passed, and Ner’zhul felt the fury leave him. He reached to touch his white-painted face; it felt the same to him as it always had.

  “They have magi of their own, these humans,” he said, his voice gentler. “Someone must be here to stop them, someone with enough magic to hold his own. Someone I can trust.” He stepped forward, stretching his hand up to place it on the ogre’s shoulder. Dentarg stepped backward, and Ner’zhul let his hand fall. “That someone must be you.”

  Dentarg glanced down at Gorefiend. “Why doesn’t he stay?”

  “I have far more knowledge of rifts and portals than you do,” the death knight said. “Ner’zhul will need my help with the ritual, or I would stay here and teach those humans a thing or two about magic.”

  Dentarg’s small, piggy eyes darted back to Ner’zhul.

  “I do need him with me,” Ner’zhul said in an avuncular, almost apologetic tone. “And while I would have you there as well, you can aid me far more by being here and lending Kargath your sorcerous skills.”

  The ogre finally nodded. “I will do as you command, master. I will stop the human magi. And if I survive, I will join you at the Black Temple.” The desire to see that place and walk its halls was naked in his voice.

  “Good.” Ner’zhul nodded and turned away. They both knew the chances of Dentarg’s surviving were slim. “I will leave the black dragons here to help in the battle. Go now and coordinate with Kargath.” From the corner of his eye he saw Dentarg nod, and listened as the ogre stalked out of the room. Once those thunderous footsteps had faded away, Ner’zhul turned back to Kilrogg and Gorefiend.

  “Gather your warriors and your death knights,” he told them. “We leave at once.”

  Less than an hour later, Ner’zhul was astride a wolf loping from Hellfire Citadel, surrounded by Kilrogg and his warriors. Gorefiend and his death knights scouted ahead on their reanimated steeds. Behind them, Kargath Bladefist and his orcs cheered from the citadel walls, chanting Ner’zhul’s name. The Horde leader rested one hand on his pouch, making sure the scroll was still there, knotted the other in his wolf’s thick pelt, and rode on.

  He did not look back.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Alleria had stayed with Turalyon that night. They had talked for a long, long time, and the chasm that had yawned between them had been bridged. When they could speak no longer, they let their hearts and bodies continue the healing. They had emerged from his quarters together the next morning, and if there were knowing grins from their friends, both knew there was
also genuine happiness. Even though they faced death today, they would do so knowing that there was much joy waiting for them if they survived.

  And they would survive. Turalyon was not about to let her go, not now that they’d found each other again.

  He had kissed her hard, and she had slipped off in the predawn light with her rangers. They had discussed signals and such, and finally decided on a time.

  “We will douse the lights for ten heartbeats, then relight them if we have taken the watch tower,” she had said. “If we haven’t taken them all by the time the sun is about to clear the horizon, come anyway,” Alleria had said. “They will be able to see as well as you an hour later and this plan will have been for naught.”

  He’d nodded. Turalyon was at peace with her fighting out of his sight now; he knew she would take no unnecessary risks. She had returned to herself again.

  Danath would lead the initial, decoy charge, while Turalyon would bring up the main offense once the Horde forces had engaged them in combat. Danath and his men would be outnumbered, but not for long.

  “It will be harrowing for a while,” Turalyon warned him. “You’ll have to trust that all is going according to plan.” He hesitated. “It might feel like the portal battle all over again, Danath.”

  Danath had regarded his commander with steely eyes. “No it won’t. This time, we’re the ones who are taking those green bastards by surprise. I trust you, Turalyon. The ghosts of those dead boys will be fighting alongside us. They’ll be at peace when we trap the orcs between two fronts.”

  Turalyon had shivered a little. “Danath…” he had begun.

  Danath had waved it aside. “I’ve no death wish,” he said, “don’t worry about that. I want to get home one day, and to bring these boys home with me. I don’t want to write one damned more letter that begins ‘It is with deepest sympathy.’”

  Turalyon had gripped his second-in-command’s shoulder and nodded. Danath would hold the orcs long enough for the second force to crash upon them like a tidal wave.

  Kurdran and his gryphon riders, along with Khadgar and some other magi, would be ready to be part of that wave. Turalyon would miss the mage’s presence—they had been together throughout the Second War, and it would feel strange to go to battle without Khadgar by his side. But if all went well they would meet up and celebrate their victory.

  Now he waited in the chill predawn for the signal. Danath’s group had gone around and would be attacking from the rear with horses and loud shouts while Turalyon’s group had moved carefully, quietly, on foot to a place close enough to see the signal but far enough away that the night still hid them. He gazed at the citadel, at the mile-long, solid wall that encased it. At intervals along that wall, huge braziers burned sullenly, casting just enough illumination to show the barest hints of the iron spikes that adorned the citadel. Jagged, powerful, dark—the building had a vivid presence. Turalyon somehow felt that not only would they need to defeat the orcs within its walls—the living ones and the death knights—but they’d have to defeat the citadel itself. It was an utterly hideous place, angular and organic at the same time, as if it were some massive beast whose flesh had melted in places to expose the sharp bones that had given it form.

  He stared at the watch towers until his eyes ached from the strain. There…one of them had gone out. And then been relit. Once the final light had been doused and relit, Turalyon heard the sound of human voices raised in a battle shout and the thunder of hooves. He wanted desperately to charge in, but he forced himself to wait. The rangers would need time and the opportunity to get to the gate, and that would only come when the orcs manning it had been called to fight Danath’s men.

  Every second was agony. Finally, when he heard the sound of weapons clashing and the bellow of orc war cries mixing with those of his men, he knew the moment had come. Turalyon lifted his hammer and raised it to eye level, where its dull metal head caught the early morning light.

  “May the Holy Light grant us strength,” he said quietly, and those gathered around him nodded, a murmur spreading among them as his hammer began to shine and then to glow from within. “May it guide us in this endeavor, leading us to victory, to honor, and to glory.” For an instant the hammer seemed composed of white light. Then that light burst outward, washing across them all in a wave, and Turalyon knew the others felt the same strength and peace he did. A faint aura clung to the hammer and to each of them, outlining them against the red rock all around, and he smiled at this open sign of the Light’s blessing.

  Turalyon led his men at a fast lope toward the wall. The citadel loomed before them, and the closer they came, the more oppressive and mammoth it grew. He could see the gate now, looking like a mouth in a hideous face.

  And then, right when he was wondering if he had mistimed the charge, the gate began to open.

  “She did it,” one of the men whispered.

  “Of course she did,” Turalyon said softly. “She’s Alleria Windrunner.” Light, how he loved her.

  They were not the only ones who had noticed the gate opening, however. Even as Alleria and her rangers darted forward to join with Turalyon’s group, a handful of orcs raced after them. Turalyon caught a glimpse of Alleria’s golden hair in the faint light, and he sped up, breaking into a full run. His hammer rose almost of its own accord and began to glow again, a gleaming white light held high above his head. That caught one orc’s attention, and the creature turned toward him instead of the rangers. It charged, and for a moment he thought it weaponless and mad—until he saw the scythe that served the creature for a hand.

  “For the Sons of Lothar!” the paladin cried, tongue liberated as the need for stealth evaporated. He brought the hammer crashing down, crushing the orc’s skull. Even as the first orc dropped, Turalyon hauled his weapon back around, striking a glancing blow to one in front of him before smashing an orc two paces over with his full strength. Another orc raced toward them, but an arrow suddenly protruded from its left eye and it toppled without a sound. A fifth snarled and swung the heavy club at its side, but Alleria leaped forward, ducked the blow, and thrust, her sword blade piercing the green-skinned creature’s throat and emerging from the back of its head. Turalyon had spun and finished off the orc he’d stunned, and now he charged up the stairs at full speed, Alleria and her rangers and his men right behind him.

  A troop of orcs met Turalyon as he rounded a bend in the stairs halfway up. They had the advantage of size, strength, and position, but he had momentum and determination. Holding his hammer before him, his hands gripping it just below the head, Turalyon used it like a small battering ram, slamming into one orc after another. The force of the impacts jolted him, and he had to fight not to totter back a step, but the orcs found themselves tossed aside and either slammed into the wall or toppled from the stairs, and fell to the ground below. The orcs that retained enough presence of mind to attack him in turn found themselves pierced with arrows, courtesy of Alleria and her rangers, and any orc Turalyon stunned but didn’t kill the men behind him finished off as they raced up the stairs behind him.

  In what seemed like minutes, but Turalyon knew had probably been longer, he reached the top. The citadel’s ramparts stretched out before him, far longer than Honor Hold’s but less even, more chaotic and oddly shaped. Some orcs stood here, heavy spears in hand, ready to hurl them down upon the approaching army, but most of the Horde had poured out of the front gates, Turalyon saw, and were running to meet the Alliance head-on. He also saw long black figures circling above, and knew the black dragons were just waiting for the right moment to join the fight.

  “Alliance!” Turalyon shouted, holding his hammer high and racing to the rampart’s front edge. “Alliance!” From here he spotted Danath riding near the front of his group, and the warrior raised his sword in response. He was covered with blood and gore, but none of it was red human blood. Nor had he lost many men. The Light was with them!

  Then what orcs were still up here reached him, and Turalyon was
busy defending himself and clearing the ramparts of their defenders. The sounds of battle were everywhere: metal against metal, stone against plate, flesh against flesh, mixed with growls and roars and bellows and cries. The bodies were all mingled together, the green of the orcs against the pink of the humans and the browns and blonds and blacks of the horses, with the gleaming sheen of armor and the dull luster of axes and hammers mixed in as well. At one point when he was able to spare a glance, Turalyon managed to pick out Danath again, and watched as the warrior impaled a charging orc upon his sword, yanked the blade free, and whirled to slice another’s throat open.

  Turalyon had just smashed down the last orc when he heard a loud shriek from above. Glancing up, he saw a cloud sweeping down toward the citadel, carrying a blast of hot air with it. He grinned at the sudden moist heat. The cloud had broken apart, forming a haze that settled over the citadel, blanketing it in fog that blurred edges and hid shapes and details.

  The fog played tricks with sound as well, and so when a loud whoop sounded, Turalyon could not pinpoint its location. Neither could the dragons, it seemed, for they flew in circles, necks curling as they turned their heads this way and that, seeking the source of that sound. They didn’t have to search for long—a small shape plummeted out of the fog, dropping like a stone toward one startled dragon. Just as they seemed about to collide the shape extended, long wings unfurling, and its rapid descent became a sharp wheeling dive. The gryphon—for such it had to be—banked around the surprised dragon. The dragon snapped at it, like a dog at an insect, but the half-lion, half-eagle creature was too fast. It darted beneath the dragon as the mammoth jaws closed right where it had been, and the dragon followed. It reared back and magma spewed in a long, fiery blast from its muzzle.