“Good.” Turalyon sighed and said a quick prayer, calling down the Holy Light’s protection upon them all. He felt it pouring over them all, warm and calming, and thanked it. He clasped hands with Kurdran, Danath, and Khadgar, then turned to Alleria. She smiled bravely up at him, but she knew, as he did, the risks. Alleria. Thank the Light, they had not been so stupid as to still be shunning one another. Instead, they had found strength and comfort in each other. He folded her close for a long moment, resting his chin on her shining hair, then tilted her head up to kiss her. Pulling back, he gave her his best smile and hefted his hammer. “Let’s go.”
They charged across the valley, the remaining Alliance forces right behind them—only a handful of men stayed behind to guard the camp. As they raced around the volcano, Turalyon saw the Black Temple for the first time, and only his faith kept him from jerking his horse to a stop and then kicking it into a gallop in any other direction.
The place was enormous, towering over even the volcano jutting up from the valley floor. Carved of some stone that had perhaps once been bright but was now coated in ash and other foul substances that swallowed the light, it loomed like a piece of shadow given solid form, squat and ugly and dangerous, mocking the army that threw itself against its walls. Turalyon could tell that every surface was heavily carved, though he could not make out details yet, and the top of the central portion had protrusions that reminded him of a hand grasping at the sky. Even as Turalyon tried to take it all in, his horse stumbled, and he was nearly thrown as the earth rocked beneath him. Lightning, green and loud and ominous and crackling with darkness instead of illumination, shattered the skies. His horse whickered in terror and reared. Its rider was only marginally less frightened, but did his best to calm the animal.
“What’s going on?” he shouted to Khadgar over the roll of thunder.
“The skies are right,” Khadgar shouted back. “I fear that—”
His words were snatched away as the earth shook again and the skies flashed green.
Turalyon saw another flash, and his head whipped up.
The portion that evoked the image of a hand reaching for the skies—it was glowing.
“Oh no,” he breathed, and turned to Khadgar.
“I was right,” Khadgar yelled. “Ner’zhul has begun his spell.”
“Can we still stop him?”
“I can,” Khadgar answered grimly. “Just get me there in time.”
“Consider it done.” Turalyon raised his hammer high overhead and summoned his faith, channeling it into the blessed weapon. The hammer’s surface began to glow, the light spreading as it grew, until it shone so brilliantly the volcano dimmed alongside it. The orcs and death knights battling before the Black Temple turned away, blinded, but the light did not sear Alliance eyes and his soldiers cheered as Turalyon galloped past them, his hammer burning a path through the temple’s defenders.
Until one figure stepped out into his path.
“Your little light does not frighten me!” Teron Gorefiend called out, a jeweled truncheon in his hand. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that the death knight was lying. He had let his hood fall back and his hideous, decaying face and burning red eyes were plainly visible. That face was contorted with pain, and the body strained as if wanting to flee of its own accord. Gorefiend lifted the strange weapon he held. It glowed with a multicolored light, and that varied radiance battered at Turalyon’s glow, attempting to overpower it.
“The Holy Light is all that you are not, monster,” Turalyon shouted in reply, pointing the hammer at Gorefiend and loosing a burst of light like a missile. “If you do not fear it, then embrace it!”
The burst struck Gorefiend, but he swept his truncheon before him and it scattered Turalyon’s attack, diffusing the brilliant white into rays of color. Then the death knight struck in turn—he leveled his truncheon at Turalyon, and a shadow emerged from its tip, engulfing the Alliance commander. Turalyon felt the darkness constrict, smothering his light and his limbs simultaneously, and fought against it, writhing to break free. Air passed beneath him and he hit the ground hard, rolling and struggling—clearly the attack had carried him from his horse, but the darkness stayed on him, pressing him down into the earth.
He gasped for air, but his lungs refused to inflate, refused to obey his commands. He’d fallen. Of course he had—he was not even good enough to stay atop his horse. What kind of general was he? His troops would die too. He’d led them straight to their deaths. Lothar would be so ashamed of him….
Turalyon spasmed on the earth, willing himself to breathe, but tendrils of darkness wrapped around his chest, crushing it. Snakelike, they wound up around him, pinning his arms to his sides, forcing their way into his mouth, his nostrils, his eyes—ah, it burned! Tears spilled from tightly closed lids, but only inflamed the fire.
And so he would die, a failure, a catastrophe. All those deaths would be on his head. Those innocents in other worlds, gaping in horror as the vast green tide swept over them. The men who had believed him when he told them the Light would be with them. Light…what Light—where was it now, now that it mattered—
Alleria!
Dead, too, she would be, joining her family, cursing him in whatever afterlife the elves believed in. She never loved him; he saw that now. He was a toy, one she would have outlived, one she’d have moved on from. Khadgar—Kurdran—Danath—
The dark tendrils tightened. Turalyon opened his eyes, staring blankly. I’m sorry, Lothar. I failed you. I’m not you. I led them—
He blinked.
He led them the best he’d known how. No, he wasn’t Anduin Lothar, the Lion of Azeroth. Only Lothar could be Lothar. It would be the height of arrogance to assume otherwise. He was Turalyon, and the Light was with him; it hadn’t failed him yet, not when he had prayed with his whole heart.
Just ask. All you have to do is ask, with a pure heart. That’s why Lothar picked you. Not because he thought you’d be him. Because he knew you’d be you.
Turalyon took a shallow breath, constrained by the dark tendrils, and prayed. He opened his eyes, and he knew without understanding how he knew that they were shining with pure white radiance. He looked down at the tendrils of darkness and they melted, retreated, as shadows must always, must ever retreat, before the Light. His chest heaved with a great breath and he clambered to his feet and grabbed his hammer, swinging it through what remained of the shadows.
The attack had lasted only a few seconds, though it had felt like an eternity. Gorefiend had used the diversion to creep closer, and when Turalyon could see and move freely again he realized the death knight was only a few feet away. His red eyes widened as Turalyon took a step forward—clearly he had not expected the young Alliance commander to win free so quickly, if at all—and he was not prepared for the heavy blow Turalyon’s hammer struck him full in the chest. Turalyon was sure he heard bones snap beneath the worn armor, and the death knight stumbled back, though he did not fall.
“You cannot win,” Gorefiend hissed through gritted teeth. “I am already dead—what is the worst you could do to me?” His truncheon jabbed forward, catching Turalyon in the stomach and doubling him over, and Gorefiend’s hand brushed the back of Turalyon’s helm. Instantly pain blossomed in Turalyon’s head, as if a vise had gripped his helm and was squeezing it tight onto his temples and skull. Stars exploded behind his eyes and he felt the world tilt crazily around him. In desperation he swung his hammer again, a mighty two-handed arc, and felt the heavy head strike something solid. There was a rattle and a gasp and the pain vanished.
Blinking away spots and taking a deep, racking breath to clear his head, Turalyon glanced up in time to see Gorefiend stagger a step, one arm hanging limp. While the death knight was off-balance Turalyon lurched forward, hammer raised high. He summoned his faith to him again, and the radiance shone from his limbs and from his weapon, too bright to look upon as he advanced upon his foe.
The death knight cried out, raising his hands to shield his e
yes from the radiance, which was now actually starting to make his flesh smoke and curl.
“By the Light!” Turalyon cried, praise, prayer, and promise all in one. The light flared brightly, so brightly, and as he brought the hammer down it did more than simply crush the reanimated body. It cleaved through it, the light carving an arc through Teron Gorefiend, ripping through him until the dead flesh fell in a soggy, reeking heap.
A horrible wailing pierced Turalyon’s ears and he staggered back, staring in horror and disbelief as the jagged, shrieking wisp that was Teron Gorefiend’s soul twisted upward from the wreckage of his body. The paladin lifted the glowing hammer and swung once more, but he was a fraction of a second too late, and the spirit was gone, shrieking in pain and frustration, fleeing into the crackling green and black sky.
“Come on!” came Alleria’s voice, startling Turalyon. His heart swelled to see her. He quickly leaped atop his horse and galloped toward her.
Riding ahead of them was Khadgar, and they caught up quickly. The death knight had been the temple’s last barrier. Now they were within the Black Temple itself, and faced the long stairs winding up toward the top and the sickly light that pulsed forth from that height.
Alleria…Khadgar…Danath…Kurdran—damn it, they were not going to die here. With a physical shake of his head, Turalyon dispelled the last of the shadow’s hold on him, gripped his hammer, and rode toward his destiny.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ner’zhul stood upon the roof of the Black Temple, in the center of the inscribed circle. Above him, obscured by the lowering clouds and flashes of green lightning, the great conjunction involving the Watcher, the Staff, and the Tome was reaching its peak. And as above, so below. Also below, beneath his feet, Ner’zhul could sense Draenor’s ley lines crossing over and around and through him, and as he closed his eyes he could feel the entire world trembling in his grasp. This was why the draenei had built their temple here, and why it was the only place where he could cast this spell. From here he could literally tap the entire planet for the power to cast his spell.
Arrayed around him, in the larger circle that surrounded the first, were several of Gorefiend’s death knights, the few warlocks who had survived Doomhammer’s wrath, and a handful of his own Shadowmoon orcs. The latter group stood in the third and largest circle, facing outward, weapons raised. They were there for protection, while the others aided Ner’zhul in tapping the planet’s power and performing the ritual.
They had already been casting for an entire day, since the moment the celestial alignment was right, and only the energy flowing through them kept the old shaman from collapsing from fatigue or hunger. As it was, his skin tingled and his hair danced about him as if carried high by an unseen wind.
They were nearing the end of the spell. The Alliance had crashed against the Black Temple’s thick walls hours before, and were in danger of breaching its defenses at any moment. But they would be too late, Ner’zhul thought triumphantly. He raised the Scepter of Sargeras in his right hand, and the Eye of Dalaran in his left. Both gleamed brightly, inner light shining from the head of the scepter and dancing from facet to facet within the Eye’s violet center. Those two artifacts focused the ley line energy, coalescing it into almost physical form, and then pulsed the strength into Ner’zhul’s limbs. Now his entire body was thrumming, and he knew that he was no longer standing on the stone roof but hovering just above it as the energy lifted him from the surface.
“Now!” he shouted, touching the tip of the scepter to the center of the Eye and feeling the rest of their stored energy flash through his limbs and into his heart and mind. He knew his eyes were glowing bright, brighter than the sun, and he could see the lines of magic etched upon the world and through the air, see the souls of those surrounding him, see the connection between them and this world, and between this world and the rest of the cosmos. He could feel the curtains surrounding Draenor, separating it from other realities.
And, with a single quick, slashing gesture of the scepter, he tore through those curtains, shredding them as easily as he might slice through thin parchment.
The world shook. The ground trembled. The sky rumbled. A terrible grinding sound echoed up from far below and met an earsplitting shriek descending from above the clouds. Draenor screamed and thrashed in pain. The other participants staggered as the Black Temple shifted, many of them falling to their knees. Ner’zhul, too, staggered but managed to stay upright, buoyed by the power coursing through him.
He could feel the magic reaching across reality, like a fishing line cast into the void. It leaped forward, Draenor’s own energies giving it vast momentum—and hooked onto something solid. Another world. The line grew taut, and with a twang that vibrated right through him a responding chord raced back down the line—and tore open a hole in their reality.
A rift. It was a rift. Ner’zhul recognized the feel of it, the raw power that frayed air and earth and nature, the throbbing link that bound this world to the next. Beneath the skull face paint, his lips split into a broad smile, and he closed his eyes, drinking in the heady feel of success. He had done it! He had opened a rift!
And not just one. He could sense other rifts appearing all across Draenor, like tiny bubbles emerging from the sea and bursting open when they touched the raw air, like lightning strikes from a storm that blanketed the entire planet. Each one burned in his mind like a new volcano.
He could send scouts through each rift, to report back on the worlds they found. Then he would choose the most likely and lead the Horde through to a better place. And, perhaps, to another after that. And after that as well, until his people had as many worlds as they wanted, as many as they could comfortably hold. Until each clan had its own world, if they liked. Then no one would be able to stop them.
Obris, one of the many who had been guarding the spellcasters all this time, said, “This is our new world?”
Indeed, what they could see through the undulating rift was not pleasant. It was not much, but enough to be disturbing: Something fluttered and loomed up, then was gone. A sickly light surged dully, then vanished. “This doesn’t look like anything we—”
“Silence!” Ner’zhul cried, whirling to face Obris. “We—”
And in that moment of inattention, within his grasp, the Eye trembled. Ner’zhul frowned and clutched it harder. It seemed to writhe like a fish and before he realized what had happened, it leaped from his hand, flew through the air—
—and came to rest in the hand of a tall, broad-shouldered man with white hair and violet robes. A staff in one hand shone with power, and his eyes blazed with far more hidden deep within. A human wizard—and he had literally snatched victory from Ner’zhul’s grasp.
Behind the mage stood a man in full armor, carrying a hammer that glowed with a blinding white light. Ner’zhul realized this man was not just a warrior, but akin to a shaman—except that the forces he tapped were somehow on a grander scale than a mere planet’s. The elven female who stood beside them had no such magical abilities, but her face showed righteous anger. She had an arrow nocked and aimed directly at him.
Ner’zhul trembled.
How dare they?
How dare they interrupt his moment of absolute glory! Ner’zhul realized he felt no fear, no worry—just absolute outrage.
“The Eye will not serve you when you are dust!” he cried, and let the outrage take him. It blazed through him, pure and hot and deadly. With a cry he lifted his hands. The tortured rock and stone obeyed in agony, cracking beneath the intruders’ feet. Barely in time, the Alliance intruders leaped aside, rolling to come up with weapons at the ready. But Ner’zhul was not done. Not yet. He was just getting started.
The rocks that had cracked now rose up and hurled themselves at the Alliance interlopers. Wind and rain whipped around them, snatching them up to hover helplessly in the air before slamming them mercilessly down on the unyielding stone. Ner’zhul took great pleasure in watching them suffer. It was with effort that he
turned back to yell, “Through the rift! Now! Glory and fresh worlds await us!”
Obris gaped at him. “Kill the Alliance and let us gather our Horde! You cannot possibly mean that only we few will escape? What about our brothers, who fight even now? Grom and the Warsong are still in Azeroth. There are females and children scattered all over. We cannot abandon them! To do so would be the most gutless, cowardly—”
Something snapped in Ner’zhul. Something that had been holding him down, he suddenly realized. It was only now—now that he was free of guilt, of shame, of trying to still do good for his people—that he realized what a burden it had truly been. He had once accepted death as part of the cycle; then feared it; then realized he was the bringer of it, and all the heavy weight that that implied.
No more. He was free.
He didn’t even favor Obris with a retort. Ner’zhul extended his hand. Lightning balled in his palm and raced in a crackling arc toward the other orc, slamming into Obris’s chest with a thunderclap and hurtling him backward. He crashed into the wall and slid down, a smoking black hole in his chest. He did not rise.
Whirling, Ner’zhul turned to those around him, who stared at him in shock. “The other orcs are lost. They have served their purpose. From this point on, all that we gain will be ours alone. I am the Horde, and I will survive. Choose me, or choose death!”
When they did not move, he growled and lifted the scepter. Now they did move, as if suddenly freed, rushing toward the flickering rift. It hovered a few inches above the roof’s surface and rose to nearly ten feet. Ner’zhul went last, holding the rift open with his power and his will, then stepped into the rift himself.
He had just enough time to gasp before the rift vanished behind them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Khadgar’s head swam, but he felt warm healing energy spreading through his body. He got to his feet, swaying, and swore. The rift was just fading from view, leaving a faint afterimage like a steam trail. And Ner’zhul and his orcs were gone with it.
Beyond the Dark Portal Page 27