Beyond the Dark Portal wow-4

by Aaron Rosenberg

  "How did you get it?" Grom asked.

  Again Hurkan shrugged. 'A warrior killed the war­lock and took it from him. I killed the warrior and claimed it myself. Or perhaps there were others in be­tween. No matter. Once I saw it and learned whose skull it was, I knew it must be mine. And it is." He grinned again. 'And I will not part with it. Not for Ner'zhul, not for anyone."

  Grom nodded. "I understand."

  His attack was sudden and swift, Gorehowl already slicing the air as he leaped forward. But Hurkan was an experienced warrior and for once he was thinking clearly — he dove to the side, the axe shrieking past his shoulder, and then spun, his massive fist catching Grom across the cheek. The blow sent a jolt of pain through him, but Grom ignored it. Hurkan grabbed a warclub dropped by one of the warriors he'd killed and swung it toward Grom. Grom danced aside, the club narrowly missing his chest, and lashed out again. Gorehowl caught Hurkan across the upper right arm, carv­ing open the flesh.

  Grom was vaguely aware of the gathered orcs watching, waiting to see who won. He knew more than just his own life hung upon the outcome of this battle, but he could spare no more than a passing thought for such a thing if he were to be the victor.

  Hurkan was proving to be a worthy foe. The big Bonechewer chieftain was as large as Orgrim Doomhammer had been and almost as fast. And when he was thinking, Hurkan was no fool but a wily old warrior, one who could read an opponent and anticipate his moves. He proved that as he ducked another swing and came up beneath it, slamming both hands into Grom's chest and sending him stumbling back several paces.

  But the moment of clarity had passed. Already Grom could see his foe's eyes beginning to roll back, and foam flecking his lips. Hurkan's breathing was be­coming labored, his strikes more powerful but also less controlled. Grom easily ducked or blocked the wild swings, although his arms strained with the effort. Grom bared his teeth in a savage grin, feeling the bloodlust rise within him. It wanted to control him, as it con­trolled Hurkan. But Grom would not let it. He was the master, not it. It was time to end this. He ducked be­neath Hurkan's latest swing, filled his lungs, and thrust his head forward into the Bonechewer's face.

  His black-tattooed jaw opened almost impossibly wide and a violent, gut-wrenching scream pierced the air. Hurkan's own scream was a bass counterpoint as he clapped huge hands to his bleeding ears and dropped to his knees in agony. Blood spurted from his nose and eyes and dripped from his open mouth. Grom's legendary war cry mutated into a laugh of tri­umph as he swung Gorehowl in a smooth arc, separat­ing Hurkan's head from his massive shoulders.

  The body continued to move, its arms flailing for a moment. For a second it paused, as if listening with some other senses, then pitched forward to the ground. It lay there, twitching slightly

  Grom stared at it, grinning, then kicked the body over. Fortunately, the prize he had come for was undam­aged. He looked at the skull for a long moment, remem­bering Gul'dan, remembering Ner'zhul. Remembering all that had happened over the last few years. Then he pulled a thick cloth bag from his belt and dropped it over Gul'dans skull, scooping the grisly item up safely Teron Goreflend had spoken with Grom before he left, and the death knight had warned Grom not to touch the skull directly. While Grom disliked and distrusted the death knight, an unnatural thing somehow returned from death and wearing a human corpse for flesh, he did heed the warning. Gul'dan had been dangerous enough in life that Grom could easily imagine the warlock's remains still having power in death.

  Straightening with Gorehowl in one hand and the bag in the other, Grom looked out over the assembled orсs. "Who now speaks for the Bonechewer clan?" he demanded loudly.

  A tall, powerfully built young orc pushed his way forward. He wore a belt fashioned from orc spines and bracers carved from the spine segments of an ogre. A heavy spiked club rested across one shoulder. "1 am Tagar Spinebreaker," he announced proudly, though his eyes shifted uneasily to Hurkan’s body before re­turning to Grom. "I lead the Bonechewers now."

  Grom gestured with the bag. "I have taken the skull. Now I will ask you, Tagar Spinebreaker: Will you join with us, or will you join Hurkan?"

  The new Bonechewer chieftain hesitated. "Before I answer, I have a question for you, Grom Hellscream. You ask us to follow Ner'zhul. Why have you chosen to do so? You once said he created all our troubles!"

  So, the brute wasn't as stupid as he looked. Grom decided he deserved an answer. "He did create all our troubles,'" Grom replied, "by handing control to this traitor"—he gestured with the bag—"and letting Gul'dan do whatever he chose without obstruction. But before that Ner'zhul was wise, and advised the clans well. And he first forged the Horde, which is a great thing.

  "I follow him now because he has sworn to reopen the Dark Portal. I should have been there before, slaughtering humans on Azeroth, but Gul'dan pre­vented it. Now I will have my chance." He laughed. "Ner'zhul has told me that Gul'dan's skull is a neces­sary ingredient in the rite to open the portal. Sweet it is to me that Gul'dan, who denied me before, will now be the key to my opportunity. That, Bonechewer, is why I follow Ner'zhul.

  "Now — the choice is yours. Rejoin the Horde. Or"—he raised Gorehowl again, and spun it so it sang, an undulating dirge of blood and chaos—"we slaughter you all, down to the last suckling babe. Right now." He tilted his head back and roared, the pounding overtak­ing him. Behind him, his warriors started to chant, stomping their feet and swinging their weapons to add to the rhythm, until the very plain shook with the sound.

  Grom licked his lips and raised his axe, then met Tagar's wide eyes. "Which will it be?" he growled. "Gorehowl longs to shriek again. Shall it taste human flesh … or Bonechewer?"

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “A what?" Turalyon, General of the Alliance forces, paladin of the Silver Hand, stared in utter baf­flement at the tiny figure who sat before him.

  "A rat problem!" the gnome exclaimed.

  "When you said there was an issue with wildlife that was threatening to derail the entire tram construction project," Turalyon said slowly, "I assumed you had run into difficulties with the subterranean lake, or perhaps the creatures in . . ." Turalyon's voice trailed off. "You did say 'rat'?"

  "Indeed!" Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, head of the project to construct a mechanical transportation sys­tem that would eventually link Stormwind and Ironforge, shuddered.

  "Horrible things, those vermin. Some bodies we've found were this big!" Mekkatorque spread his hands about six inches apart. Granted, on that tiny frame, that was a substantial amount, but still… the engineer had called an emergency session with the general of the Alliance over a rat problem?

  Turalyon still wasn't quite sure what to think of the small beings who were good friends with the dwarves. If Mekkatorque, who had come to Stormwind a few years ago with the full endorsement of the dwarven king Magni Bronzebeard himself, was any indication, they were a curious bunch. Mekkatorque talked fast and used terms that Turalyon was utterly unfamiliar with, and struck him as a jovial fellow. The gnome rep­resentative didn't even reach Turalyon's hip when standing, and was all but swallowed by the large chair in which he was now ensconced. The table was level with his bright eyes, and at one point, Mekkatorque let out an exasperated huff and simply climbed atop it to point at the blueprints he had unfolded within two minutes of his arrival.

  "They've completely infested the prototype, chew­ing through the wiring here, here, and here," Mekka­torque continued, stabbing a tiny finger down at the blueprints. "We can't extract it or even get in to repair it without losing more good people to those vile crea­tures. The last team we sent in after it… well, it wasn't a pretty sight." His large eyes looked solemn.

  Turalyon nodded. The idea of a tram had struck him as brilliant when it was first proposed shortly after the Second War. Progress on rebuilding Stormwind was being made, but slowly — it was a long and danger­ous trek from Ironforge to Stormwind, and King Bronzebeard had chafed at the delay in getting supplies to his allies. Turalyon felt out
of his depth at the time, and still had that reaction every time Mekkatorque came to him with updates or problems. He was a pal­adin, a warrior by fate and a priest by training. He knew little enough of simple construction, and this "tram" was quite beyond him. Especially when Mekka­torque talked so fast.

  Turalyon had discovered that gnomes were fiercely if eccentrically intelligent, and he was willing to believe it if this… contraption that Mekkatorque proposed did even part of what he claimed it would do. He re­membered their first conversation.

  "How safe will it be?" he had asked.

  "Er… well, we are on the cutting edge technologi­cally with it, you must understand," Mekkatorque had said, running a hand along his muttonchop whiskers. "But I'm willing to bet it will eventually be as safe as the safest gnomish creation ever!"

  Something in the sound of his voice had warned Tu­ralyon that that might not be particularly safe at all. But he wasn't a builder, or an engineer. Still, it was coming along.

  Until this rat problem.

  "I understand that rats are proportionately much larger, and therefore much more threatening to your people than to mine," Turalyon said as diplomatically as he could, although he wondered why Bronzebeard hadn't handled the problem on the Ironforge end. 'And we can't have them chewing through the wiring. I'll send some of my men back to Ironforge with you. They'll, er… hunt the vermin down and help you effect repairs."

  Turalyon might have been Greatfather Winter him­self the way Mekkatorque reacted. "Thank you, thank you! This is excellent. It will be back on track in a jiffy. And then we can finally tackle that pesky underwater problem." The gnome slipped off the chair and reached up a small hand to Turalyon, then pumped it vigorously.

  "Go speak to Aramil," Turalyon said, referring to a former guard at the keep who now served as Turalyon's assistant in all things nonmilitary. "He'll take care of the arrangements."

  Turalyon watched the gnome depart, and turned back to his correspondence. Dozens of letters, from so many people, all wanting something from him. He ran a hand through his short blond hair and sighed. A walk would do him good.

  The air was clean and clear as he stepped outside, al­though clouds lowered. He walked up to the canal, gazing briefly at his reflection in the now-cleared water. Turalyon had never been to Stormwind until the day he and his men had entered the city two years ago, and so he had not had the additional horror of knowing what the city had been like before it fell. It was horrific enough as it was. These famous canals had been clogged — with stones and lumber, with dirt… with defiled corpses. The dead had been respectfully buried, the rubble cleared. Now the canals ran freely again, connecting the various parts of the city. Turalyon lifted his gaze to the white stone, gray now in the dimming light, and the red roofs. The Dwarven District housed many of Bronzebeard's hardworking men, sent along with Mekkatorque, and nestled next to that area was the cathedral.

  Thunder rumbled as he approached. He fixed his eyes on the glorious building, one of the first to be completed in its entirety The orcs had damaged it badly, but even then it was a place of safety — the enemy had not realized that the cathedral had vast rooms and catacombs beneath it. Dozens had huddled there, sheltered by its stone while terror raged above them. It was one of the few buildings large enough to house the refugees in the initial stages of reconstruc­tion, and even now, people flocked to it when they were ill, or injured, or even just in need of a little re­minder of the Light.

  Like Turalyon.

  'Oof!" He stumbled forward, so lost in thought that he hadn't seen the pair of children until they'd slammed into him.

  "Sorry, mister!"' the boy cried. The girl gazed up at him with solemn brown eyes. Turalyon smiled and pat­ted her hair as he spoke to the boy.

  "With an attack like that you'll make a fine soldier one day," he said.

  "Oh yes, sir, I hope so, sir! You think all the orcs will be dead before I'm old enough to kill them?"

  Turalyon's smile faltered. "I'm sure you'll be able to serve the Alliance well,"' he said, evading the question. Revenge. The fiery need and anger it kindled in the heart had cost Turalyon someone he loved. He would say nothing to foster racial hatred in a child. Keeping his hand on the girl's head, he murmured a soft prayer. Light glowed around his hand and for a brief moment, the child was enveloped in radiance. Turalyon lifted his other hand and blessed the boy as well. Awe shone in both pairs of eyes that regarded him.

  "Light bless you both. Now, you two had best be getting home. Looks like rain."

  The boy nodded and grabbed his sister's hand. "Thanks, Mister Paladin!" The two ran toward their home. It was not far; Turalyon realized they lived in the building adjacent to the cathedral. The orphanage.

  So many orphans. So many lives lost.

  Thunder rumbled again, and the heavens let loose. Rain began pouring down in sheets. Turalyon sighed, pulling his cape around himself and running lightly up the steps to the cathedral, getting soaked even in that short distance. The smell of incense and the soft, barely audible sound of chanting coming from somewhere in the building soothed him at once. He had become used to giving orders, to fighting battles, to emerging from them covered in his own blood or that of the orсs. It was good to come back to the church, and to remember his origins as a simple priest.

  A soft smile curved his lips as he beheld his brethren, his fellow Knights of the Silver Hand, doing their duties here as surely as they had on the battle­field. Archbishop Alonsus Faol had created the order three years ago, and it was by his decree that the pal­adins now served humbly in the communities that had been so devastated by the war. Even as he looked around, Turalyon saw his old friend Uther, whom he himself had given the title "Lightbringer." Turalyon was used to seeing the powerfully built man in full armor, swinging his weapon, his ocean-colored eyes afire with zeal as the Light came to him in the form of powerful attacks. But Uther now was clad in simple robes. He was attending to a woman who looked ex­hausted and drained, gently wiping her forehead with a damp cloth and cradling something in his free hand.

  As Turalyon drew closer, he saw that the bundle Uther held so gently was a newborn, its skin still mot­tled from birth. The new mother smiled tiredly but happily and reached for her child. Its lusty, healthy wail was the sharp, sweet song of hope. Uther rested his hand on the woman and blessed her and her child, as Turalyon had done with the orphans earlier. Turalyon realized that although Uther was obviously at home on the battlefield, using the Light to take the lives of those who would slay him and those he served, he was equally at home here in the cathedral, bringing a new little life into the world. Such was the dichotomy of paladins; they were warriors and healers both. Uther glanced up and smiled, rising to greet his friend.

  "Turalyon," he said in his deep, gruff voice. The two paladins clasped hands. "Good to see you. About time you found your way down here." Uther cuffed the younger man playfully.

  "You're right," Turalyon agreed, chuckling. "It's good to be here. It's too easy to get caught up in all the things that need to be done but can never quite be fin­ished. Like a rat problem."

  "Eh?"

  "I'll tell you later. For now, how can I help?" This was what mattered, he thought. Not staying holed up in the keep pushing paper.

  Uther's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked over Turalyon's shoulder. "1 think you've got some of that un­finished business right here," he said.

  "Oh?" Turalyon said casually, turning around.

  It was like seeing a ghost, a moment wrenched out of its proper place in space and time and incongruously reenacted. She stood before him, face and hair and clothing wet, emerald eyes fixed with his eyes. She had gotten caught in the rain, looking almost as she had that night nearly two years ago, coming to him now as she had come to —

  Alleria Windrunner's eyes narrowed, as if she, too, recalled that night, and found it an unpleasant memory. Turalyon felt a chill sweep over him that had nothing to do with his wet clothing.

  She bowed, stiffly, f
irst to Uther, then to him. "Lightbringer. General."

  Ah. This was how it was to be played, then. "Ranger." He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. He had half-expected it to crack with emotion. "What brings you here?"

  "Tidings," she said, "of the worst sort." Her eyes flickered to Turalyon's, then back to Uther's. "Little else would."

  Turalyon felt a muscle twitch in his cheek and grit­ted his teeth. "Then pray deliver them."

  The elf looked around, slightly contemptuously. "I wonder if I have not come to the wrong place for aid. I did not expect to find generals, knights, and holy war­riors tending to babies in a church."

  Turalyon welcomed the anger; it chased away the heartsickness. "We serve where we are called, Alleria. All of us. I feel certain you didn't come all the way here just to insult us. Speak."

  Alleria sighed. "A short time ago, I met with Khadgar and several of the Alliance leaders, including your own king. It seems that there is a dimensional rift where the Dark Portal once stood. Khadgar believes that very soon, orcs — perhaps an entire second Horde — could come through again. He sent me on gryphonback at once to inform you."

  She had their attention now, and they listened in si­lence as she repeated what she had learned. Not for the first time since the Lion of Azeroth's death, Turalyon wished Anduin Lothar were here. He often found him­self wishing that when faced with a difficult decision, or impending combat, or simply the need to talk to someone. Lothar would have responded instantly, calmly but decisively, and others could not have helped but follow. While the veterans of the war had begun calling themselves the Sons of Lothar, Turalyon himself — Lothar's lieutenant — was not comfortable with the term. He did not feel like a son of the great man, although he would defend Lothar's ideals to his last breath. He was still thinking when Alleria finished talking and turned her eyes expectantly upon him.