Beyond the Dark Portal wow-4

by Aaron Rosenberg

  Ner'zhul paused and glanced back. "But you said you could reopen the portal. Why do that if not to re­turn there?"

  "Return, yes, but not for battle." Gorefiend closed the gap between them again. "We need only to find and claim certain magical artifacts. Once we have those, we can leave Azeroth and never return."

  'And stay here?" Ner'zhul waved a hand, the gesture encompassing much of the stricken landscape around them. "You know as well as I that Draenor is dying. Soon it will not be able to sustain even those of us left."

  He had not remembered the shaman as being so slow-witted. "It will not have to," Gorefiend assured him, speaking slowly as if to a child. "With these arti­facts in hand, we can leave both Azeroth and Draenor behind and go someplace else. Some place better."

  Now he had Ner'zhul's full attention. Something like hope flickered across the white-painted face. For a long moment, Ner'zhul stood poised either to reenter his hut and resume his self-pitying seclusion, or to em­brace this new possibility.

  "You have a plan for this?" the old shaman asked finally.

  “I do.”

  Another long pause. Gorefiend waited.

  "… I will listen." Ner'zhul turned and stepped back into his hut.

  But this time Teron Gorefiend — warlock and death knight — came with him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Look at this place!"

  Genn Greymane, king of Gilneas, gestured at the citadel towering over them, the same mas­sive structure whose front gates they were striding through as he spoke. Though a large, burly man, Grey­mane was dwarfed by the edifice they were entering, the arch of its front gate more than twice his height. The other kings nodded as they too passed through, admiring the thick outer walls with their heavy block construction, but Greymane snorted, and his frown showed he did not echo their approval.

  "A wall, a tower, and a single keep," he rumbled loudly, glaring at the half-completed buildings beyond. "This is where our money's gone to?"

  "It's big," Thoras Trollbane pointed out, the terse Stromgarde ruler as usual wasting as few words as pos­sible. "Big is expensive."

  The other kings grumbled somewhat as well. They all grieved at the costs involved. Especially since they, the Alliance leaders, were sharing the expenses equally

  "How great a price do you put on safety?" com­mented the tall, slim young man near the front of the group. "Nothing worth having comes cheaply." Several of the others ceased their grumbling at the subtle ad­monition. Varian, the recently crowned young king of Stormwind, had known safety, and been robbed of it. His realm had suffered greatly at the hands of the orcs during the First War. Much of the capital city in partic­ular had been reduced to mere rubble.

  "Indeed — how does the rebuilding go, Your Maj­esty?" a whip-thin man in green naval garb asked po­litely.

  "Very well, thank you, Admiral," Varian replied — though Daelin Proudmoore was ruler of Kul Tiras, he preferred to use his naval title. "The Stonemasons' Guild is doing an excellent job, and I and my people owe them our gratitude. They're fine craftsmen, with skills to rival those of the dwarves themselves, and the city is rising higher and higher every day." He grinned at Greymane. "Worth every copper, I'd say."

  The other kings chuckled, and one of them, tall and broad with graying blond hair and blue-green eyes, caught Trollbane's gaze and nodded approvingly. Terenas, ruler of Lordaeron, had sponsored young Varian when the prince and his people had sought refuge from the Horde, and had taken the youth into his own home until such time as Varian could be restored to his father's throne. Now that time had come, and Terenas and his old friend Trollbane were well pleased with the results. Varian was a clever, charming, noble young man, a natural leader and a gifted diplomat for one so young. Terenas had grown to think of him almost as a son, and he now took nearly a father's pride in admi­ration of the way the youth had controlled the conver­sation and distracted the other rulers from their previous complaints.

  "In fact," Varian continued, pitching his voice slightly louder, "there's the miracle worker himself." The king indicated a tall and powerfully built man speaking ani­matedly with some dusty-looking workmen. The man in question had black hair and dark green eyes that sparkled as his head turned toward them, having clearly overheard the words. Terenas recognized Edwin Van-Cleef, the head of the Stonemasons' Guild and the man in charge of both Stormwind's restoration and the con­struction here at Nethergarde Keep.

  Varian smiled and beckoned him over. "Master Van-Cleef, I trust the work continues apace?"

  "It does. Your Majesty, thank you," VanCleef replied confidently. He banged a heavy fist against the thick outer wall and nodded proudly. "It'll hold against all comers, sire, I promise you that."

  "I know it will, Master VanCleef," Stormwind's king agreed. "You've outdone yourself here, and that takes some doing."

  VanCleef nodded his thanks, then turned as another man somewhere by one of the unfinished buildings called for him. "I'd best be back to work. Your Maj­esties." He bowed to the assembled rulers, then turned and hurried off toward the shouts.

  "Nicely handled," Terenas said softly to Varian as they fell into pace together. "Defusing Greymane and flattering VanCleef at the same time."

  The younger king grinned. "It's an honest compli­ment, and he'll work all the harder because of it," he pointed out just as quietly, "and Greymane only com­plains to hear the sound of his own voice."

  "You've grown very wise for your age," Terenas said, laughing. "Or perhaps just wise in general."

  Of course, Varian's hidden reprimand could not shut Greymane up for long. As they crossed the wide court­yard Gilneas's king began grumbling again, and soon those rumblings in his thick black beard formed words once more. "I know they are working hard," he admit­ted grudgingly, glaring at Varian, who grinned in reply, "but why all these buildings?" He waved a large hand at the single completed keep they were entering as they passed beneath the portcullis and up the stairs. "Why go to so much trouble — and cost — to create such a vast citadel? It is only here to maintain watch over the valley where the portal once stood, is it not? Why would a simple keep not have sufficed?"

  Khadgar, archmage of Dalaran, exchanged tired but still slightly amused glances with his fellow wizards as Greymane's strong voice carried to them even before they entered the large meeting room.

  "It is good to hear Greymane is his old self," Antonidas, leader of the Kirin Tor, commented dryly.

  "Yes, some things never change," Khadgar replied, stroking his full white beard. He turned, his youthful quickness giving a seeming lie to his lined visage, to face the kings. "You want to know what your money has bought you, then?" he said to the newcomers, nod­ding a brief greeting to them but otherwise treating them as equals — for such they were, as Khadgar, a member of the Kirin Tor, was a ruler in his own right.

  "Well, I'll tell you, and you can thank me. Nethergarde Keep is large, yes. It has to be. Quite a few people will be living here — the magi we brought here from Dalaran, as well as the soldiers who watch for more mundane threats. The valley below us was once the site of the Dark Portal, the Hordes entrance into our world. If they ever return, we'll be ready."

  "That explains the warriors”, Proudmoore agreed, "but why these magi you spoke of? Surely a single mage would be enough to monitor the situation and alert you of any danger?"

  "If that were all that was required, yes," Khadgar agreed, pacing the room. His strides were that of the young man he truly was. Khadgar was only a handful of years older than Varian, but he had been aged pre­maturely by the magic of Medivh just before the Magus's death. "But Nethergarde is quickly becoming more than just a watch post. You can't possibly have missed the reason for our concern as you rode up. Something drained the life from Draenor, from the very land itself. When the Dark Portal was opened that lifelessness touched our world as well, killing the land around it and spreading outward. When we destroyed the portal, we thought the land would heal itself. It did not. In fact, the t
aint continued to spread."

  The kings frowned and looked at one another. This was news to them all.

  "We began to study the situation, and discovered that, even with the portal gone, a small dimensional rift remained." That brought gasps from the assembled rulers.

  "Did you find a way to stop the taint from spread­ing?" Proudmoore asked.

  "We did, though it took several of us working to­gether to do so." A frown crossed his lined face. "Un­fortunately, we were unable to restore the land that had been damaged. This area was once the Black Morass, and we managed to protect the northern half and keep it in its former state. There are rumors that some orcs are still hiding out there, but we've not seen anything concrete. But the southern half — for whatever reason, we could not breathe life back into it." He shook his head. "Someone took to calling it the Blasted Lands, and now the name has stuck. I doubt this land will ever be able to support life again."

  "Still, you stopped the taint and saved the rest of the world's soil," Varian pointed out. "That is incredible enough, given how rapidly the effect spread."'

  Khadgar inclined his head, acknowledging the praise. "We have done more than I had dared hope," he admitted, "though less than I might have liked. But a full contingent of magi must remain here at all times, to watch the area and make sure we lose no more of Azeroth to this strange taint. The magi also monitor the rift itself at the same time. And that, good maj­esties, is why Nethergarde had to be so large, and is costing so much."

  "Is there really any risk that the rift might reopen?" Trollbane asked, and the others turned back to Khadgar, clearly awaiting his answer but worried about what it might be. He could read their thoughts on their faces; the idea of reliving what had happened eight years before, when the portal had opened and the orcs had come pouring through, unnerved them all.

  Khadgar began to answer, but was interrupted by a shrill caw from just outside the meeting hall. "I think the final member has just arrived by gryphon and landed on the wall walk," he said. The woman who entered the meeting room a few moments later was tall and almost unspeakably lovely. Worn-looking green and brown leather clung to her slim form as she strode toward them. Her golden hair was tousled and she brushed it absently back from long, pointed ears. Exquisite and delicate she might seem, but everyone present knew well that Alleria Windrunner was a formidable ranger, scout and fighter and wilderness ex­pert. Many of those present had fought in battle along­side her — and owed their lives to her sharp eyes, quick reactions, and strong nerves.

  "Khadgar," she said bluntly as she stepped up beside him, tall enough to almost look him eye to eye.

  "Alleria," he replied. Affectionate nostalgia made the single word warm. They had been comrades in arms not so long ago, good friends fighting a good fight. But there was no warmth in her green-eyed gaze, nor on a face that, while beautiful, might have been carved from stone for all the animation it displayed. Alleria was courteous, but that was all. Inwardly, Khadgar sighed, stepping back through the door and gesturing for her to follow.

  "This had better be good," she said as she entered the room proper and nodded briefly to the various kings. Despite her willowy build and youthful golden looks, Alleria was easily older than any of the human rulers, which made her immune to — and often mock­ing of — their majesty. "I was hunting orcs."

  "You are always hunting orcs," Khadgar countered, more sharply than he intended. "But that is part of why I wanted you here for this."

  He waited until he had her full attention and that of the various kings. "I was just explaining that we've noticed a dimensional rift in the area where the Dark Portal once stood, Alleria. And recently the energies emanating from it have increased dramatically."

  'What does that mean?" Greymane demanded. "Are you trying to tell us it's getting stronger?"

  The young-old archmage nodded. "Yes. We think the rift is about to expand."

  "Has the Horde found some way to restore the por­tal?" Terenas asked, just as shocked as the rest.

  "Perhaps, perhaps not," Khadgar answered. "But even if they cannot create a stable portal again, once the rift alone is large enough, the orcs will once more have access to our world."

  "I knew this would happen!" Greymane all but shouted. "I knew we hadn't seen the last of those green-skinned monsters!"

  Beside him Alleria's lips curved, her eyes growing bright in — was that anticipation?

  "How soon?" Trollbane asked. "And how many?"

  "How many, we cannot say," Khadgar replied, shak­ing his head. "How soon? Very. As little as a few days, perhaps."

  "What do you need?" Terenas asked softly.

  "I need the Alliance army," Khadgar answered bluntly. "I need the entire army here in case the rift does begin widening. It's quite possible we could have a second Horde pouring out into that valley." He smiled suddenly. "The Sons of Lothar must step for­ward once again."

  The Sons of Lothar. That's what they had taken to calling themselves, the veterans of the Second War. Victory had been bought, but at a dear cost — the death of the Lion of Azeroth, Anduin Lothar, who had been the man all were willing to follow. Khadgar had been there when he fell, slain by the orc chieftain Orgrim Doomhammer. And he'd been there when his friend Turalyon, now the general of the Alliance forces, had avenged Lothar by capturing Doomhammer. Lothar's protege, coming into his own, carrying on a heroic legacy; and thus in blood had been born the Sons of Lothar.

  "You're sure about this rift?" Terenas asked carefully, clearly reluctant to offend a wizard. Which, Khadgar mused, was hardly ever a good idea. But in this case, he wasn't offended at all.

  "I wish I weren't. The energy level is most definitely rising. Soon that energy will be enough to widen the rift, allowing the orcs to pour forth from Draenor onto our world." He felt suddenly tired, as if sharing the bad news had emptied him somehow. He glanced again at Alleria, who noticed the gaze and lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  "We cannot afford to take chances," Varian pointed out. "I say we rally the Alliance army and make ready for war, just in case."

  "Agreed," Terenas said, and the others nodded their approval.

  "We'll need to contact General Turalyon," Varian continued. Alleria stiffened slightly, a flicker of unread­able emotion crossing her face, and Khadgar's eyes nar­rowed. Once, the elven ranger and the human paladin had been more than comrades in arms. They'd been good for each other, Khadgar had always thought. Alleria's age and wisdom strengthened Turalyon's spirit, and his youth and innocence softened the somewhat jaded elf. But something had happened. Khadgar had never known what, and was discreet enough not to ask. An alarmingly cold distance had sprung up between Turalyon and Alleria. Khadgar had felt sorry for them at the time; now, he wondered if this distance would cause problems.

  Varian appeared not to have noticed the subtle change in Alleria and continued, 'As commander of the Alliance army, it's his job to gather our soldiers and pre­pare them for what lies ahead. He's in Stormwind now, helping us rebuild our defenses and train our men."

  An idea occurred to Khadgar, one that might solve two problems at once. 'Alleria, you could reach Tura­lyon more quickly than anyone else. Take the gryphon and head to Stormwind. Tell him what's happened, and that we'll need to reassemble the Alliance army imme­diately."

  The elven ranger glared at Khadgar, her green eyes flashing fire. "Surely another could accomplish the trek as easily," she stated, her tone sharp.

  But Khadgar shook his head. "The Wildhammers know and trust you," he answered. 'And these fellows have their own arrangements to make." He sighed. "Please, Alleria. For all our sakes. Find him, tell him, and bring him here." And maybe you two can settle your differences… or at least decide to work together, he thought.

  Alleria's glare hardened into that implacable, expres­sionless mask. "I will do as you have requested," she said almost formally. Without another word she turned and stalked back across the hall and out the front doors.

  "Khadgar's right
," Terenas said as they watched her walk away. "We'll each need to rally our troops and gather supplies, and right away." The other kings nodded. Even Greymane was quietly compliant — the thought of the Horde returning had shocked any grip­ing clean out of him. Together they moved toward the doors, heading back into the courtyard and from there toward the massive front archway they had first passed under not an hour before.

  "Aye, go," Khadgar whispered as he watched the kings depart. "Go, and rouse the Sons of Lothar. I just pray it is not too late."

  CHAPTER THREE

  The axe shrieked as it arced downward, catching the light and glinting brightly, thirsting for blood. Its wielder laughed in a manic harmony, opening his black-tattooed jaw almost impossibly wide in the scream that had given him his name. Long black hair whipped behind him as he moved, red eyes glow­ing, slashing at the imaginary foe again and again, hon­ing his moves so that in a real battle, his enemy would be so much raw meat. Grom Hellscream grunted and whirled and turned, sheer power tempered by skill, until the sound of his name being called pulled him from the red haze that descended at such times, even in a mere exercise such as this. "Grom!"

  Grom Hellscream lowered Gorehowl, panting only slightly from the vigorous exertion, and glanced up to see an older but imposing figure stomping toward him.

  "Kargath," he replied, waiting until the Shattered Hand chieftain had reached him. They clasped hands — right hands; Kargath's left hand had been severed long ago and replaced with a wicked-looking scythe's blade.

  "Well met."

  "Well met to many, it seems," the older chieftain said, nodding to where more orcs were gathering. "Ner'zhul sent emissaries to every clan, or so I was told." Grom nodded, his black-tattooed jaw setting into a grim line. Some of those emissaries had been his, sent at the old shaman's request.