Beyond the Dark Portal

by Aaron Rosenberg

  “Go on, lad!” Kurdran ordered, his stormhammer returning to his grasp as he wheeled Sky’ree alongside the surprised dwarf.

  The younger dwarf nodded, leaning down to grab the sack from Khadgar and then nudging his gryphon with heel and knee and elbow. She responded at once, beating her wings hard and rising like a shot, then arrowing straight for the collapsing portal. But as she passed under its cracking arches, the sack flared with light, and the portal responded, the resulting glare blinding them all. Turalyon heard the gryphon shriek in pain, and the dwarf screamed as well, but he could not see what had happened to them. The terrible sounds were drowned out by a ferocious rumbling. Before he fully realized what had happened, there was a deafening crash and Khadgar was flying backward. He landed hard, blacking out for a second. When he came to an instant later, aching and barely able to breathe, he looked immediately toward the portal.

  It was gone.

  The giant statues that had guarded it had tumbled to unrecognizable boulders. The three pillars that had formed the gateway, that had contained the rift in glorious carved majesty, were now nothing but rubble. No sight of Azeroth remained.

  They had done it. They had destroyed the rift and the portal. And now, they were forever cut off from everything they had known.

  All around him, Horde and Alliance were staggering to their feet, only to feel Draenor buck beneath them again. The orcs took off, not understanding, as Khadgar did, that there was really nowhere for them to run. The portal’s collapse had apparently injured Draenor further, and the upheavals grew in intensity and frequency. They were constantly jarred and tossed about as if they were a small boat on an angry sea, the ground rippling like water and the sky thicker than fog.

  What an ignominious death, Khadgar thought with a hint of wry amusement. Having one’s brains bashed out by a chunk of earth. He looked around one last time at his friends—Danath still on his feet, still fighting what orcs hadn’t fled. Alleria had fallen and Turalyon was helping her to her feet, quickly wrapping linen around a nasty gash on her arm.

  Perhaps feeling Khadgar’s gaze, Turalyon looked up. Their eyes met for a moment, and Turalyon smiled that calm, gentle smile that Khadgar associated with the paladin. Alleria glanced at the archmage as well, and nodded her head, the bright gold dimmed with dust and matted here and there with blood. Kurdran, still hovering on Sky’ree, raised a hammer in salute.

  And so it would end. Khadgar had always suspected they wouldn’t survive this, but he was fiercely grateful they’d been able to close the portal and save their world. And he was equally grateful that if they had to die—which, he mused wryly, all men did—it would be here, together, fighting side by side as they always had.

  A faint glimmer caught his eye.

  He blinked. No, it was there—a ripple in the fabric of space and time. Another rift.

  Another world. One that, perhaps, wasn’t shuddering in its death throes.

  “There!” he yelled as loudly as he could, pointing at the rift. “We go through there! It’s the only chance we’ve got!”

  Turalyon and Alleria looked at one another. Khadgar couldn’t hear what they said over the deafening noises of a world shaking itself to pieces, but he saw them hold each other for a moment before, hands joined, they turned to the rift.

  They had all ventured forth through the Dark Portal into Draenor, but at least they’d had a vague idea of what they would find. But this…

  Draenor’s death throes continued, and Khadgar hit the earth hard. Scrambling to his feet, knees and palms scraped raw, he looked toward the rift. Salvation, or a yet worse fate? He didn’t know. None of them knew.

  They’d just have to find out…one way or the other.

  Khadgar, archmage, old man, youth, swallowed hard, steeled himself, and ran through.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Push on, Horde warriors! We are not far!”

  Grom Hellscream’s voice cut through the din, heartening those who heard it. Rexxar spun, the battle-axe in his left hand shearing through an Alliance warrior’s neck and the matching axe in his right slicing down to split another warrior from shoulder to waist. Beside him his wolf Haratha snarled and lunged in, his massive jaws snapping shut upon a third warrior’s forearm. Rexxar heard the distinctive crunch of teeth splintering bone and the man cried out, the sword falling from his hand. Haratha released the mangled arm and, in a lightning-fast move, sprang and crunched the man’s throat in his jaws. They made a lethal team.

  Off to one side Rexxar could see Grom Hellscream, chieftain of the Warsong, Gorehowl shrieking and slicing through foes. Other Warsong warriors fought beside their leader, their chants and battle cries blending together into an eerie melody of death and destruction. Rexxar was one of the few left who wasn’t from that clan, but that was not unusual for him. He didn’t really have a clan. At least, not one involved in the Horde. His own people, the mok’nathal, had always been stubbornly independent. Small in number, their lives had been difficult and focused on maintaining their traditional land in the Blade’s Edge Mountains, defending it against the ogres who sought to claim it. Rexxar had tried to tell his father, Leoroxx, about the Dark Portal the orcs were building; about the chance to find a fresh new world for the beleaguered mok’nathal. But Leoroxx saw only that his son was not staying where he had been born, to fight to protect his homeland. Both had the goal of helping their people; but in the end, Rexxar had followed the Horde, and been disowned for his choice. Now, it was the only family he had.

  But then, he’d always been different.

  Another human went down. Rexxar glanced up, his height allowing him to see over the other warriors. Grom was right—they were not far from the Dark Portal. Perhaps a hundred humans stood between him and his homeworld. Rexxar grinned and raised both axes. He was about to thin that number considerably.

  Over the last few months, the fortunes of war had swung back and forth. The Alliance had penned them in a small valley adjoining this one for a short time, but could not hold the Horde there for long. The human warriors had underestimated the will and ferocity of the cornered orcs, and Grom had led his people to freedom. They had regrouped in a place to the north called Stonard. It had been the first outpost the Horde had created when they had come through the Dark Portal originally. The swamp, though fetid and unpleasant, held life and water, and Grom had refused to let the orcs fall into despair. They had built up Stonard, augmented it with raids on Alliance supplies, and had eventually regained control of the portal.

  Back and forth the Horde and Alliance had gone. But now, the little game was at an end. Grom had decided that it was time to return. No other clans had come to aid them, and while they were still a fighting force to be reckoned with—as the Alliance was discovering now—their numbers were slowly dwindling, while the Alliance seemed to breed more by the minute. Too, there was the matter of that strange device—the one the warlocks had tried to activate. They had told Grom that it would create a shield to protect them from attack and make it easier to defend the Dark Portal. But the thing had been designed to destroy, not to protect. Someone was ready to abandon them here—and Grom Hellscream would not let his people die because of another’s treachery. Rexxar wanted to be around when Grom returned and confronted the one who had issued the order.

  A human charged him on horseback, sword raised high and shield set before him, but the soldier hadn’t counted on Rexxar’s height. Rexxar struck the shield a heavy blow with one axe, smashing it into the man, while knocking the sword away with the other. As the rider was jolted from his saddle, Rexxar brought both axes up and let the man’s own momentum impale him on the blades. He grinned and let loose a fierce war cry as he yanked the axes free and stepped over the dead soldier, the riderless horse turning and fleeing Haratha’s snapping jaws.

  Sometimes it was good to be half ogre.

  Something flickered at the corner of his vision, from inside the Dark Portal. He had only seen it for a second, but he’d gotten a clear imp
ression of lightning, rolling dust clouds, lashing waves, and shifting ground. Always before the portal had shown the other side, so he had been able to catch glimpses of Draenor during the fight. But what he’d just seen—that was not his homeworld. It was a place of nightmare.

  Another Alliance soldier attacked him then, and that brought Rexxar’s mind instantly back to the battle. He dispatched the warrior easily, but a handspan or two away from him another orc was not so lucky. Clad in the robes of a warlock, the orc had the green skin of most Horde members—unlike Rexxar himself, who had not joined the Horde until shortly before they invaded Azeroth. There were several warlocks here, some of them quite powerful, but their death magics took time, and things happened quickly in battle.

  Two warriors attacked the warlock together, and while the orc had managed to disable one, sending him fleeing in mindless terror, the other had stabbed the warlock through the chest before a nearby Warsong warrior had caved in the human’s skull with a shrieking warclub. Now the warlock staggered, one hand pressed to the blossoming bloodstain across his front, his skin already turning pale, sweat breaking out on his brow. Rexxar merely grunted and shook his head. He had little use for warlocks, and this one had clearly not been prepared for combat.

  The motion caught the warlock’s gaze, and the wounded orc stared at Rexxar, disgust and disdain washing across his features in turn. Then he staggered forward, his other hand palm out.

  “You!” the warlock shouted. “Half-breed! You are not true Horde, not a true orc. But you will do. Come here!”

  Rexxar stared at the warlock, too surprised to respond. What? This warlock insulted him and then expected him to help? Was he completely mad?

  But then, as the warlock drew closer, Rexxar saw the green glow outlining the orc’s fingers, and sucked in a quick breath as he felt a rare burst of fear. No, the warlock didn’t want his help. He wanted Rexxar’s life. Warlocks could leech life energy off others, healing themselves by draining another. The process had a high cost, and a severe wound could easily render a healthy orc lifeless.

  And this warlock’s wound was mortal.

  Rexxar tried to step back but he was boxed in, the orcs and humans behind him too tightly packed for him to move. He growled instead and raised both axes, determined to cut down the warlock rather than die himself, but the orc gestured and suddenly Rexxar dropped to his knees, unbelievable agony racing through him.

  “What, no longer so sure of yourself?” the warlock taunted softly, stepping up close enough that his breath tickled Rexxar’s skin. Rexxar crumpled and writhed in pain, too crippled by it to struggle. “Does it hurt? Do not worry. Soon the pain will be gone.” He raised his hand, slowly, deliberately drawing the moment out, and Rexxar stared as the green-limned flesh inched closer. Already he thought he could feel his energy being drawn from him, and a wave of fatigue washed over him.

  A fierce snarl cut through the haze of torment and a large black blur slammed into the warlock.

  “Haratha, no!” With the warlock’s distraction, the spell broke and Rexxar could move again. But he was too late. His devoted wolf companion had shoved the warlock away, but in the process the orc’s hand had touched Haratha’s thick pelt. Rexxar stared, horrified, as his friend shriveled before his eyes, the powerful wolf shrinking in upon himself in an instant and then collapsing, his body turning to dust that the wind carried away.

  “Ah, that feels better,” the warlock remarked, rising to his feet and brushing off his robes. The bloodstain remained but he now moved without injury. “Your pet just saved your life,” he told Rexxar with a nasty grin.

  “Yes, he did,” Rexxar replied softly, twirling both axes up and around. “But who will save yours?”

  With a snap of his wrists and a roll of his shoulders the axes came arcing back down, to drive deep into the warlock’s chest on either side of his head. Rexxar had put much of his considerable strength into the blows, and the warlock crashed to his knees as the impact drove him down, the axes ripping through him and leaving him to collapse in pieces upon the blood-soaked ground.

  Rexxar stared at the body, panting, then turned to look at the spot where the wolf had died, the rage still roaring through him and thundering in his ears. He knelt and placed his hand, wet with the warlock’s blood, on the dust for a moment.

  “You are avenged, my friend,” he said softly, “though I would you were still by my side.” He took a breath, rose, and channeled his grief and rage into action, calling out for the Warsong leader.

  Grom looked up, saw Rexxar, and waved his axe to acknowledge the half-orc. One thing Rexxar had always liked about the Warsong leader—for all his savagery and violence, Grom had always given him the same respect he would show any warrior. He’d always shown Grom the proper respect in turn, but right now results were more important than manners.

  “The portal!” Rexxar yelled, pointing. “Something is wrong!”

  Grom glanced toward the portal just as a handful of orcs staggered through. At first Rexxar’s heart lifted, thinking the Horde had sent them help after all. But then he saw that these orcs were already battered and bleeding, and that they were running rather than marching—running as if fleeing something. Something on the Draenor side.

  “Run!” one of them shouted as he barreled into an Alliance soldier hard enough to knock the man over, and kept right on going without even stopping to attack the prone target. “Run!”

  “What is going on?” Grom demanded, and Rexxar shrugged, just as confused. They were both still staring toward the Dark Portal as the scene it framed changed from the crazed landscape of a moment before to an utter maelstrom of swirling color and then to complete darkness.

  And then, it vanished.

  A heartbeat later, the stone framework that had enclosed the Dark Portal, the rift between worlds, itself began to creak and groan. The sounds increased, straining, rising to a crescendo, and then the center snapped, the two massive halves toppling inward and colliding with a loud crack and a cloud of dust and rock chips. The support pillars fell next, knocked off-balance by the initial impact, and Rexxar ducked his head, pulling the edge of his hood over his mouth to avoid choking on the dust that billowed forth. Orcs and humans alike were scattering, trying to escape the confusion and the debris.

  “No!” someone was screaming, and other groans and cries filled the air. For his part, Rexxar was struck dumb, staring at the rubble that had once been a gateway between worlds. The portal—gone? Didn’t that mean they could never go home? What would happen to them now?

  Fortunately, one orc kept his head. “We will regroup!” Grom shouted, slapping Rexxar on the shoulder. “You gather everyone on that side, I’ll get them from this side! Move toward the mouth of the valley!”

  Rexxar was jarred from his paralysis and nodded, hurrying to obey. He let the hood fall again once he was clear of the swirling dust. He could still feel the panic within but forced it back by concentrating on the task Grom had assigned him. Every orc he saw, he directed back toward the valley’s front, and whether because of his size, or the axes he wielded, or simply because they were desperate for orders, the orcs all obeyed without dispute. By the time Rexxar reached the mouth himself, Grom was back as well, and all the Horde members still on Azeroth were with them. Most of them looked as stunned as Rexxar felt.

  “Grom! The portal is gone!” one of them wailed.

  “What do we do?”

  “Yes. The portal is gone. And the Alliance regroups,” Grom announced loudly, gesturing to where the humans were gathering in front of what had been the portal just moments before. “They think we will be easy prey. They think we will be lost, and frightened without the portal. But they will be wrong. We are the Horde!”

  His glowing red eyes scanned the crowd before him, and he lifted Gorehowl. “We head north, back to Stonard. We discover what happened to our world. We tend our wounded. We survive.

  “Then we’ll regroup so we can face the humans on our terms rather than theirs.” H
e growled. “The Alliance closes in. Will they take us?”

  A resounding “No!” lifted from what Rexxar privately feared was the last remnants of the orcish Horde. Grom grinned, tilted his head back, opened his black-tattooed jaw, and uttered his battle cry before he charged, his people following.

  That one. Grom marched up to the orc sitting huddled beside the fire as they camped in Stonard that night. He was not dusty or bloody and Grom knew all his warriors. Grom clamped his hand down on the orc’s shoulder and yanked him backward, looming over the orc, whose eyes were wide with surprise. Beside Grom towered Rexxar.

  As easily as if he were hoisting a child, Grom lifted the orc and held him in the air. The orc’s feet kicked and flailed. The Warsong chieftain leaned in close.

  “Now,” Grom said softly, a deep scowl on his face. “What in the name of the ancestors happened back there?”

  Shivering, the orc frantically told all he knew. The other orcs listened. The only sound was the orc’s rapid talking, the crackle of the fire, and the omnipresent sounds of the swamp at night. When he finished, no one spoke. They simply stared, shocked beyond speech.

  Finally, after several minutes, Grom shook himself. “So,” he growled, glaring at the others and half-shaming, half-intimidating them into looking away, shuffling their feet, and straightening up. “We prepare, then.”

  “Prepare?” Rexxar cried, and Grom turned to face the half-orc, half-ogre warrior. “Prepare for what, Hellscream? Our whole world is dead, our people are dead, and we’re trapped here forever. Alone. What in the name of the ancestors should we prepare for?” Rexxar’s grip on his axes was so tight Grom thought he heard the stone hafts creaking from strain.

  “We prepare for vengeance for the dead!” Grom snapped, an image of Garrosh leaping into his mind’s eye once more. His son and heir. My boy, he thought; my boy. Dead, like all the rest. “We’re all that’s left!” he insisted, rounding upon the other orcs. “We are the Horde now! If we give up, it means the end of everything we knew, everything we cared about! Our race will not die unless we lie down and accept death like craven weaklings! If Ner’zhul’s plans—”