Windx ist wach!

Marcus’s eyes had widened at the list of troubles, and his gaze had gone quickly to the youth standing beside the big warrior, then moved away before his stare could become rude. “It will be done,” he assured them, and turned away to speak to one of the villagers, who nodded and leaped onto a nearby horse, galloping away before the headman had taken two steps back to the church.

“Willem is our finest rider, and his horse the fastest in the village,” Marcus assured the two men. “He will reach Capital City well ahead of you and deliver your message. We will gather horses and what food we can for you and your companions to take on your own journey.”

Lothar nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to the violet-robed man. “Gather those who would come with us, Khadgar, and make ready. We leave as soon as possible.” The wizard nodded and turned away, heading for the nearest cluster of refugees.

A few short hours later, Lothar and Khadgar left Southshore, the prince Varian Wrynn beside them, leading threescore men. Most had chosen to remain behind, either from illness or fatigue or simply out of fear and shock and a desire to cling to those few survivors from their own land. Lothar did not begrudge them. A part of him wished he could remain in the small fishing village as well. But he had a duty to perform. As always.

“How far to Capital City?” he asked Khadgar, riding beside him. The villagers had offered them the use of what few mounts and carts they had, which had proven just enough to manage. Lothar had hesitated about taking any more from the generous villagers but had finally accepted, knowing it would speed their process immeasurably. And time was of the essence.

“A few days, perhaps a week,” the wizard replied. “I don’t know this part of the country that well but I remember it on the maps. We should see the city’s spires in five days at the most. Then we will have to pass through Silverpine Forest, one of the great wonders of Lordaeron, to skirt Lordamere Lake. The city stands along its north shore.”

Khadgar fell silent again and Lothar studied his companion. He worried about the young man. When first they’d met he’d been impressed by the wizard’s composure and easy self-confidence, and astonished at his youth. He had been only seventeen, little more than a boy, and already a wizard in his own right—and the first Medivh had ever deigned to accept as an apprentice! Subsequent encounters had shown him that Khadgar was bright, stubborn, focused, and friendly. He’d found himself liking the boy, the first time that he’d felt such friendship toward a wizard since—well, since Medivh himself. But after the events at Karazhan….

Lothar shuddered, remembering the ugly, nightmarish conflict. He had found himself, with Khadgar, the half-orc Garona, and a handful of men, against Medivh himself. Khadgar had administered a lethal blow to his master out of necessity but it had been Lothar who had removed his old friend’s head, a head he had protected many times in their youth. Back when he and Medivh and Llane had been friends and companions.

Lothar shook his head to drive away the tears. He had grieved many times on their long sea voyage, but still it felt as if the pain and rage and sorrow would overwhelm him. Llane! His best friend, his companion, his king. Llane, with the bright smile and the laughing eyes and the quick wit. Llane, who had carried Stormwind into a golden age—only to see it torn apart by the orcs, their Horde sweeping across the land and destroying everything in their path. And then to discover that Medivh had been responsible for it all! That his magic had aided the orcs in reaching this world, had given them access to Stormwind! And thus had led to not only the kingdom’s destruction but Llane’s death! Lothar bit back a cry at the thought of all he had lost, all his people had lost. Then he hardened himself to it, as he had so many times during their journey. He could not let himself succumb to such emotion. His people needed him. And so did the people of this land, though they did not know it yet.

And so did Khadgar. Lothar still did not understand everything that had happened in Karazhan that night. Perhaps he never would. But somehow, during the battle with Medivh, Khadgar had changed. His youth had been stripped away, his body aged unnaturally. Now he appeared an old man, far older than Lothar himself though Khadgar was the younger of them by almost four decades. And he worried what else it had done to the young wizard.

Khadgar, for his part, was too lost in his own thoughts to notice his companion’s concerned gaze. The young-old wizard’s thoughts were turned inward, though they ran along the same lines as his companion’s. He was reliving the battle in Karazhan, and experiencing again that horrible wrenching sensation as Medivh drew from him his magic and his youth. The magic had returned—indeed, in many ways it was far stronger now than before—but his youth was gone, torn from him long before its time. He was an old man now, at least in appearance. He still felt hale and hearty, and had as much endurance and strength and agility as ever, but his face was lined, his eyes deep-set, and his hair and fledgling beard a stark white. Though only nineteen, Khadgar knew he looked three times that and more. He looked like the man in his vision, the older version of himself he had seen in battle through the magic of Medivh’s tower. The older man who would someday die beneath a strange red sun, far from home.

Khadgar also studied the emotions within him, the ones that came from Medivh’s death. The man had been evil incarnate, singlehandedly responsible for loosing the orc Horde upon the world. Yet it had not been the man, not truly. For Medivh had been subsumed by the titan Sargeras, who his mother had defeated millennia before. Sargeras had not died, only his body, and he had hidden away within Aegwynn’s womb, infesting her unborn son. Medivh had not been responsible for his own actions, and his dying words to Khadgar had revealed that the Magus had been fighting the evil within himself for years, perhaps all his life. Khadgar had even encountered a strange phantom version of his dead master, shortly after burying the body, and that Medivh had claimed to be from the future and to be free of Sargeras’s taint at last. Thanks to Khadgar himself.

So what should he feel, Khadgar wondered? Should he be sad that his master had died? At times he had liked Medivh a great deal, and certainly the world had lost much when the Magus died. Should he be proud of the role he had played in freeing the man and driving Sargeras from this world again, perhaps for good? Should he be enraged at what Medivh had done, both to him and to others? Or awed that one man could resist the influence of a titan for so long?

He could not tell. Khadgar’s mind was awhirl, as was his heart. And added to all the thoughts of Medivh were more. For he was home. At least, he was back in his homeland, back in Lordaeron. And not in the way he had expected. When he had left to become Medivh’s apprentice, at the behest of his previous masters in Dalaran, Khadgar had not expected to return until he was a master mage himself. He had thought to fly back on a gryphon, as Medivh had taught him, and land atop the Violet Citadel so that all his former teachers and fellows could marvel at his prowess. Instead he was riding a plow horse beside Stormwind’s former Champion, leading a ragtag band of men to speak to the king about saving the world. Khadgar bit back a chuckle. Well, at least they would make a dramatic entrance, he thought. That was something his old teachers and friends would appreciate.

“What will we do once we reach the city?” he asked Lothar, startling the aging warrior from some reverie. His companion recovered quickly, however, turning to study him with those disarming storm-blue eyes that showed the warrior’s emotions plainly but hid the sharp mind within.

“We will speak with the king,” Lothar replied simply. He glanced at the youth riding silently beside them, and reached back to stroke the handle of his greatsword, its gems and gold gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. “Though Stormwind is lost Varian is still her prince and I am still her Champion. I have only met King Terenas briefly, and many years ago, but perhaps he will recognize me. Certainly he will know Varian, and the messenger will make sure he is aware of our arrival. He will grant us an audience. And then we shall tell him what has happened, and what must be done.”

“And what must we do?” Khadgar asked, though he thought he already knew.

“We must gather the rulers of this land,” Lothar answered, as Khadgar had thought he might. “We must force them to see the danger. No nation can stand alone, not against the Horde. My own land tried and is gone because of it. We must not let that happen here. The people must unite and fight!” His hands clenched on the horse’s reins, and Khadgar could again see the powerful warrior who had led Stormwind’s armies and kept its borders safe for so many years.

“Let us hope they listen,” Khadgar said softly. “For all our sakes.”

“They will,” Lothar assured him. “They must!” Neither of them said what both were thinking. They had seen the power of the Horde firsthand. If the nations did not unite, if their rulers refused to see the danger, they would fall. And the Horde would sweep across this land as it had across Stormwind, leaving nothing behind.

A dark figure stood upon a tall tower, gazing out at the world below him. From his vantage point he could see the city beneath and the countryside around it. Both were covered in swirling, shifting darkness, a tide that swept across the land and covered the buildings, leaving them in ruins.

The figure watched. Tall and powerfully built, massively muscled, he stood motionless upon the stone peak, his sharp eyes studying the scene below him. Long dark hair swung in braids about his chiseled face, the tasseled ends occasionally striking the long tusks that jutted up from his lower lip. The sun beat down upon him, making his skin glow emerald in the light, and creating a glare from the many trophies and medallions he wore about his neck and across his broad chest. Heavy plates covered his chest, shoulders, and legs, their scarred surfaces gleaming black except where heavy bronze knobs studded them. Gold gleamed along the edges, proclaiming his importance.

At last the figure had seen enough. He raised the enormous black warhammer he had been leaning upon, its stone head absorbing rather than reflecting the sunlight, and bellowed. It was a warcry, a summons and an exclamation, and the sound swept forth, slamming into the buildings and hills around him and echoing back.

Below him, the dark tide ceased its movement. Then it rippled, as faces turned upward. Every orc in the Horde stopped and looked, staring up at the solitary figure high above.

Again he shouted, his hammer held high. And this time the tide erupted in cheers and shouts and answering cries. The Horde acknowledged its leader.

Satisfied, Orgrim Doomhammer let his signature weapon drop back down to his side, and the dark tide below resumed its destructive motion.

Down below, beyond the city’s gates, an orc lay upon a cot. His short, scrawny frame was covered in thick furs, a sign of high status, and rich clothing lay in a pile nearby. But the clothing had not been touched, not in weeks. For the orc lay without stirring, as if dead, his ugly face scrunched in pain or concentration, his bushy beard bristling about his snarling mouth.

Then, suddenly, all changed. With a gasp the orc sat bolt upright, the furs falling away from his sweat-drenched body. His eyes opened, glassy and unseeing at first, then blinking away the long sleep and glancing around him.

“Where—?” the orc demanded. A larger figure was already moving to his side, both heads registering pleased surprise, and as the orc’s gaze caught him the eyes sharpened, as did the features. Whatever confusion had lingered was gone, replaced by cunning and rage. “Where am I?” he demanded. “What has happened?”

“You were asleep, Gul’dan,” the other creature replied, kneeling by the cot and offering a goblet. The orc grabbed it sniffed it, and tossed back the contents with a grunt, wiping a hand across his mouth afterward. “A sleep like death. For weeks now you have not moved, have barely breathed. We thought your spirit gone.”

“Did you, now?” Gul’dan grinned. “Were you afraid I would leave you, Cho’gall? Abandon you to Blackhand’s tender mercies?”

The two-headed ogre mage glared at him. “Blackhand is dead, Gul’dan!” one head snapped. The other frantically nodded agreement.

“Dead?” At first Gul’dan thought he had misheard, but Cho’gall’s grim expressions convinced him even before both of the ogre’s heads nodded. “What? How?” He pulled himself up to a sitting position, though the motion made him reel and break out in a cold sweat. “What has happened while I slept?”

Cho’gall began to answer but his words died as someone thrust aside the tent flap and burst into the small, dim space. Two burly orc warriors shoved Cho’gall out of the way and roughly grabbed Gul’dan’s arms, hauling him to his feet. The ogre began to protest, rage darkening his twinned features, but two more orcs squeezed into the tight space and barred his path, heavy battleaxes at the ready. They stood guard as the first two dragged Gul’dan from the tent.

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded, trying to wrest his arms free. It was no use, however. Even at full health he would not have been a match for either warrior, and now he could barely hold himself upright. They were dragging him as much as leading him and he saw that he was being taken toward a large, well-crafted tent. Blackhand’s tent.

“He took control, Gul’dan,” Cho’gall said quietly, pacing beside him but staying beyond the warriors’ reach. “While you were unconscious! He attacked the Shadow Council and killed most of them! Only you and I and a few of the lesser warlocks remain!”

Gul’dan shook his head, trying to clear it. He still felt fuzzy, unfocused, and from what Cho’gall said this was not a good time to lack clarity. But what the ogre had said made him more confused rather than less. Killed Blackhand? Destroyed the Shadow Council? It was insane!

“Who?” he demanded again, twisting to face Cho’gall over the warriors’ broad shoulders. “Who did this?”

But Cho’gall had slowed his steps, falling back, a look of surprising fear crossing both his faces. Gul’dan turned back around just as a powerful figure strode forward. And at once, seeing the massive warrior in his black plate armor, the colossal black warhammer held so easily in his hands, Gul’dan understood.

Doomhammer.

“So you are awake.” Doomhammer all but spat the words as the warriors stopped before him. They released Gul’dan’s arms suddenly and the orc warlock was unable to stop himself from crumpling to the ground. He looked up, on his knees, and gulped at the naked fury and hatred he saw in his captor’s face.

“I—” Gul’dan began, but Doomhammer cut him, backhanding him hard enough to lift him off the ground and drop him in a heap several feet away.

“Silence!” the new Horde leader snarled. “I did not say you could speak!” He strode closer, raising Gul’dan’s chin with the head of his fearsome weapon. “I know what you have done, Gul’dan. I know how you controlled Blackhand, you and your Shadow Council.” He laughed, a harsh sound filled with bitterness and disgust. “Oh, yes, I know about them. But your warlocks will not help you now. They are dead, many of them, and the few who remain are chained and watched.” He leaned closer. “I rule the Horde now, Gul’dan. Not you, not your warlocks. Doomhammer alone. And there will be no more dishonor! No more treachery! No more deceit and lies!” Doomhammer rose to his full impressive height, towering over Gul’dan. “Durotan died from your scheming, but he will be the last. And he will be avenged! No more will you rule our people from the shadows! No more will you control our fate and direct us for your own sordid purpose! Our people will be free of you!”

Gul’dan cowered, thinking fast. He had known Doomhammer could become a problem. The powerful orc warrior was too intelligent, too honorable, too noble to be easily swayed or controlled. He had been second to Blackhand, the powerful Blackrock leader Gul’dan had chosen as his puppet for the Horde leadership. Blackhand had been an extremely powerful fighter but had thought himself clever and thus had been easily controlled. Gul’dan and his Shadow Council had been the real powers, and Gul’dan had ruled the council as easily as he did their warchief.

But not Doomhammer. He had refused to follow, carving his own path with reckless abandon equaled only by his loyalty to their people. Clearly he had seen what occurred behind the scenes, witnessed what he considered corruption. And when he had finally seen enough, when he could endure no more, he had acted.

Clearly Doomhammer had chosen his moment carefully. With Gul’dan out of the way, Blackhand had been vulnerable. How he had discovered the Shadow Council’s location was unclear, but obviously he had done so and then had eliminated most of them. Leaving Gul’dan, Cho’gall, and who knew what others.

And now he stood over Gul’dan, hammer raised, ready to destroy him as well.

“Wait!” Gul’dan cried out, both hands raising automatically to shield his face and head from harm. “Please, I beg you!”

That made Doomhammer pause. “You, the mighty Gul’dan, beg? Very well, dog, beg! Beg for your life!” The hammer had not lowered, but at least it had not fallen. Yet.

“I—” Gul’dan hated him then, hated him with a passion he had never known for anything but power itself. Yet he knew what he had to do. Doomhammer hated him as well, for orchestrating his old friend Durotan’s death and for transforming their people from peaceful hunters to raving warmongers. Given even the slightest excuse, that hammer would smash his skull in, coating itself with his blood and hair and brain. He could not allow that to happen.

“I bow to your might, Orgrim Doomhammer,” he managed at last, pronouncing each word clearly and loud enough that all those nearby could hear him. “I acknowledge you as warchief of the Horde, and I pledge myself to you. I will obey you in all things.”

Despite himself, Lothar was impressed.

Stormwind had been a towering, imposing city, filled with spires and terraces, carved from strong stone to resist the wind but polished to a mirror sheen. But in its own way Capital City was equally lovely.

Not that Capital City was the same as Stormwind. It was not as tall, for one. But what it lacked in height it made up for in elegance. It sat on a rise above the north shore of Lordamere Lake, gleaming all in white and silver. It did not glitter as Stormwind had, but it glowed somehow, as if the sun were rising from its graceful buildings instead of beating down upon them. It seemed serene, peaceful, almost holy.

“It is a mighty place,” Khadgar agreed beside him, “though I prefer a little more warmth.” He glanced behind them, toward the lake’s southern shore, where a second city rose. Its outlines were similar to those of Capital City, but this mirror image seemed more exotic, its walls and spires suffused in violet and other warm hues. “That is Dalaran,” he explained. “Home of the Kirin Tor and its wizards. My home, before I was sent to Medivh.”

“Perhaps there will be time for you to return, at least briefly,” Lothar suggested. “But for now we must concentrate on Capital City.” He studied the gleaming city again. “Let us hope they are as noble in their thoughts as they are in their dwellings.” He kicked his horse into a canter, and rode down out of the majestic Silverpine Forest, Varian and the mage right behind him and the other men trailing them in their carts.

Two hours later they reached the main gates. Guards stood by the entrance, though the double gates were wide open and large enough for two or even three wagons to pass abreast. The guards had clearly seen them long before they reached the gates, and the one who stepped forward wore a crimson cloak over his polished breastplate and had gold traceries in his armor and helmet. His manner was polite, even respectful, but Lothar could not help noticing how the man stopped only a few feet away, well within sword range. He forced himself to relax and ignore the laxity. This was not Stormwind. These people were not seasoned warriors, hardened by constant battle. They had never had to fight for their lives. Yet.

“Enter freely and be welcome,” the guard captain stated, bowing. “Marcus Redpath warned us of your arrival, and your plight. You will find the king in his throneroom.”

“Our thanks,” Khadgar replied with a nod. “Come, Lothar,” he added, nudging his horse with his heels. “I know the way.”

They rode on through the city, navigating its broad streets easily. Khadgar did indeed seem to know the way, and never slowed to ask directions or puzzle over a turn until they had reached the palace itself. There they surrendered their horses to some of their companions, leaving them to mind the steeds. Lothar and Prince Varian were already striding up the palace’s wide steps and Khadgar quickly joined them.

They stepped through the palace’s outer doors and into a wide courtyard, almost an outdoor hall. Viewing boxes lined the sides, and though empty now Lothar was sure they filled with people during celebrations. At the far end another short flight of steps led up to a second set of doors, and these opened onto the throneroom itself.

It was an imposing chamber, its arched ceiling so high overhead its edges were lost in shadow. The room was round, with arches and columns everywhere. Golden sunlight streamed down from a stained-glass panel set in the ceiling’s center, illuminating the intricate pattern in the floor: a series of nested circles, each one different, with a triangle at their middle overlapping the innermost ring, and the golden seal of Lordaeron within that. It had several high balconies and Lothar guessed these were for nobles but also appreciated their strategic value. A few guards with bows could easily strike anywhere in the room from those vantage points.

Just beyond the pattern stood a wide circular dais, its concentric steps rising up toward a massive throne. The throne itself looked carved from glittering stone, all sharp edges and planes and angles. A man sat there, tall and broad, his blond hair only lightly touched with gray, his armor gleaming, the crown upon his head shaped more like a spiked helmet than a coronet. This was a proper king, Lothar knew at once, a king like his Llane who did not hesitate to fight for his people. His hopes rose at the thought.

There were people here, townsfolk and laborers and even peasants, gathered facing the dais from a respectful distance. Many carried items, scraps of parchment, even food, but they parted before Lothar and Khadgar, falling away from the pair without a sound.

“The Horde,” Khadgar said, speaking for the first time since they had entered the throneroom. Terenas turned toward him, and Lothar was close enough to see the king’s eyes narrow slightly. “The Horde did this.”

“And what is this Horde?” Terenas demanded, turning first to Varian and then to Lothar.

“It is an army, more than an army,” Lothar replied. “It is a multitude, more than can be counted, enough to cover the land from shore to shore.”

“And who commands this legion of men?” Terenas asked.

“Not men,” Lothar corrected. “Orcs.” At the king’s puzzlement Lothar explained. “A new race, one not native to this world. They are as tall as we are, and more powerfully built, with green skin and glowing red eyes. And great tusks from their lower lips.” A noble snorted somewhere, and Lothar turned, glaring. “You doubt me?” he shouted, turning toward each of the balconies in turn, looking for the one who had laughed. “You think I lie?” He struck his armor with his fist, near one of the more prominent dents. “This was made by an orc warhammer!” He struck another spot. “And this by an orc war axe!” He pointed to a gash along one forearm. “And this came from a tusk, when one jumped me and was too close for our blades to strike one another! These foul creatures have destroyed my land, my home, my people! If you doubt me come down here and say so to my face! I will show you what sort of man I am, and what happens to those who accuse me of falsehood!”

“Enough!” Terenas’s shout silenced any possible reply, anger plain in his own voice, but when he turned to Lothar the warrior could see that this king’s anger was not directed at him. “Enough,” the king said again, more softly. “None here doubt your word, Champion,” he assured Lothar, a stern look around daring any of his nobles to disagree. “I know of your honor and your loyalty. I will take you at your word, though such creatures sound strange to us.” He turned and nodded at Khadgar. “And with one of the wizards of Dalaran beside you as a witness, we cannot discount what you say, nor the notion of races never seen here before.”

“I have not, noble Doomhammer,” Gul’dan replied, stopping beside him. The warlock looked thin but otherwise no worse for his months-long slumber. “But I have at last shaken off the last effects of my prolonged slumber. And I bring powerful news drawn from that same long repose!”

“Oh? Your sleep has brought you wisdom?”

“It has shown me the path to great power,” Gul’dan admitted, lust clear in his eyes. But Doomhammer knew it was not an ordinary lust, not for females or fine food or wealth. Gul’dan thought only of power, and would do anything to obtain it. His actions on their own world had proven that.

“Power for you or for the Horde?” Doomhammer demanded.

“For both,” the warlock replied. His voice dropped to a sly whisper. “I have seen a place, ancient beyond imagining, older even than the sacred mountain of our homeworld. It lies deep beneath the waves, and within it rests a power that could reshape this world. We could claim it as our own, and none can stand against us!”

“None can stand against us now,” Doomhammer growled back. “And I prefer the honest might of hammer and axe to whatever foul sorceries you have uncovered. Look what your scheming did to our world, and to our people, the last time! I will not have you destroy them further or wreck this new world just as we have begun to conquer it!”

“This is far greater than your desires,” the warlock snapped, his temper brushing aside any pretense of servility. “My destiny lies beneath the water, and there is little you can do to stop that! This Horde is but the first step in our people’s path, and it shall be I who lead them beyond here, not you!”