Tides of Darkness

CHAPTER TWENTY—TWO

"NO!" The word burst from Turalyon's lips as he shoved through the crowd and dropped to his knees beside the dead body of his hero, his mentor, his commander. Then his gaze switched to the orc towering above him, and something within him clicked into place.

For months Turalyon had been struggling with his faith, and with one particular question: How could the Holy Light unite all creatures, all souls, when something as monstrous, as cruel, and as purely evil as the orc Horde walked this world? Unable to reconcile the two he had been unsure of himself and of the Church's teachings, and had looked on with envy as Uther and the other Paladins gave blessings and shone bright with zeal, knowing he could not match their abilities.

But something this orc, this Doomhammer, had just said had registered on some level below conscious thought, and Turalyon tried to trace it. "Until your world belongs to us," the Horde warchief had gloated. "Your world," not "our world" or even "this world."

And that was the answer.

He had remembered the Dark Portal, of course—Khadgar had told him about it when they had first met, while describing the orc menace, and it had been mentioned several times since then. But for some reason the truth of it had never really sunk in. Until now.

The orcs were not of this world.

They were foreign to this planet, to this very plane of existence. They came from elsewhere, and were powered by demons from even farther beyond.

The Holy Light did unite all life, everyone in this world. But not the orcs, who did not belong here.

And that meant his task was clear. He was charged with upholding the Holy Light and using its blazing glory to scour this world clean of all threats from without, and to maintain the purity within.

The orcs did not belong here. And that meant he could strike them down with impunity.

"By the Light, your time here has ended!" he shouted, rising to his feet. And a brilliant glow sprang up around him, so bright orcs and humans alike turned away, shielding their eyes. "You are not of this world, not of the Holy Light. You do not belong here! Begone!"

The Horde warchief grimaced and backed away a step, a hand shielding his eyes. Turalyon took advantage of the moment to crouch again beside Lothar's body.

"Go with the Light, my friend," he whispered, touching a forefinger to the fallen Champion's shattered forehead, his own tears dripping down to mix with the dead warrior's blood. "You have earned a place among the holy, and the Light welcomes you into its loving embrace." An aura sprang up around the body, glowing a pure white, and he thought the features of his dead friend relaxed slightly, growing calm, even quietly content.

Then Turalyon rose again, and now he held in one hand the shattered greatsword. "And you, foul creature," he declared, turning toward the dazzled Doomhammer. "You will pay for your crimes upon this world and its peoples!"

Doomhammer must have recognized the threat in his tone, for the orc leader gripped his hammer with both hands and swung it up, blocking the blow he sensed was coming. But Turalyon had both hands wrapped around the broken sword's hilt and brought the blade down in a blinding flash of light—and the ruined weapon slammed hard into the massive warhammer's black stone head, the impact traveling down the heavy wooden handle and shaking it free of its master's grip. The hammer fell harmlessly to the side. Doomhammer's eyes widened as he realized what had happened, and then he closed them and gave a faint nod, waiting for the rest of the blow to fall.

But Turalyon had turned the blade at the last second, and struck the orc with the flat instead of the edge. The impact drove Doomhammer to his knees, and then he collapsed alongside Lothar, but Turalyon could see the rise and fall of the warchief's back.

"You will stand trial for your crimes," he told the unconscious orc, the light building around him. "You will stand in Capital City, in chains" — it was brighter than the brightest day now, and every orc turned away, cowering from the blinding light—"as the leaders of the Alliance decide your fate, and there you will acknowledge your full defeat."

Then he turned and glanced up, this time at the other orc warriors, who had stood frozen as they had watched their leader's apparent victory converted to stunning defeat. "But you will not be so lucky," Turalyon intoned, leveling the shattered sword at them. Light lanced from it and from his hand, his head, his eyes. The black rock around him was blanched white by the power that poured from his body. "You will die here, with the rest of your kind, and this world will be rid of your taint forever!" And with that he leaped forward, the sun—bright blade already in motion. It caught the first orc in the throat before he could even react, and the brute fell, blood spurting from the wound, as Turalyon charged past him toward the other half—blinded Horde warriors.

That broke the paralysis, and the other orcs and humans finally were able to move again. Uther and the other Silver Hand Paladins had joined the throng during Lothar and Doomhammer's battle and now they ran forward to follow their fellow, auras springing up around them as well as they dove into the gathered Horde. The rest of the Alliance forces followed.

The battle that followed was surprisingly quick. Many of the orcs had seen Doomhammer's defeat, and their leader's collapse sent them into a panic. Many fled. Others dropped their weapons and surrendered—these were rounded up for imprisonment and, despite his earlier statement, Turalyon found he did not have it in himself to kill helpless prisoners, no matter what they done beforehand. Many did stand and fight, of course, but they were disorganized and dazed and proved little match for the resolute Alliance soldiers.

"A band of them, perhaps four hundred strong, is fleeing south through the Redridge Mountains," Khadgar reported an hour later, after the combat had ended and the valley and grown quiet save for the rustling of the men, the moans of the wounded, and the growling of the prisoners.

"Good," Turalyon replied. He was tearing a long strip from his cloak and wound that around his waist as a sash, then stuck Lothar's shattered sword through it. "Form up ranks and pursue them, but not too quickly. Let the unit leaders know. We don't want to catch them."

"We don't?"

Turalyon turned and looked at his friend, reminding himself again that for all his talents the mage was no tactician. "Where is this Dark Portal that leads back to the orcs' world?" he asked.

Khadgar shrugged. "We don't know exactly," he admitted. "Somewhere in the swamplands."

"And now that the Horde has suffered an undeniable defeat, where will those few survivors go?"

The old—seeming mage grinned. "Back home."

"Exactly." Turalyon straightened. "And we will follow them back to this portal, and destroy it once and for all."

Khadgar nodded and turned to seek the unit leaders, but stopped as Uther approached them.

"There are no orcs left save those who have given themselves into our custody," the Paladin announced.

Turalyon nodded. "Good work. A handful escaped, but we will pursue them and destroy or capture them as well."

Uther studied him. "You have assumed command," he said softly.

"I suppose I have." Turalyon considered it. He hadn't really thought about it before. He had simply gotten used to giving orders for the army, both at Lothar's request and when the Commander was in the Hinterlands with the rest of the troops. Now he shrugged. "If you'd prefer we can send a gryphon rider to Lordaeron to ask King Terenas and the other kings who should assume command."

"There's no need," Khadgar said, stepping back to stand beside him. "You were Lothar's lieutenant and sub—commander. You were given charge of half the army when we divided the forces. You are the only choice to command now that he is gone." The mage turned toward Uther with a glare, clearly daring him to contradict the statement.

But to Turalyon's surprise, Uther nodded. "It is so," he agreed. "You are our commander, and we will follow your lead as we did Lord Lothar's." Then he moved closer and rested a friendly hand on Turalyon's shoulder. "And happy I was to see your faith finally emerge, my brother." The compliment seemed genuine, and Turalyon smiled, pleased to have the older Paladin's approval.

"And I thank you, Uther the Lightbringer," Turalyon replied, and he saw the older Paladin's eyes widen at the new title. "For so shall you be known henceforth, in honor of the Holy Light you brought us this day." Uther bowed, clearly pleased, then turned without another word and walked back toward the other knights of the Silver Hand, no doubt to tell them their marching orders.

"I thought he'd argue for taking control," Khadgar said quietly.

"He doesn't want it," Turalyon replied, still watching Uther. "He wants to lead, yes, but only by example. He's comfortable leading the Order only because they're Paladins as well."

"And you?" his friend asked bluntly. "Are you comfortable leading us all?"

Turalyon pondered that, then shrugged. "I don't feel I've earned it, but I know Lothar trusted me with it. And I believe in him and his judgment." He nodded and met Khadgar's gaze. "Now let's be after those orcs."

It took them a week to reach what Khadgar said were called the Swamp of Sorrows. They could have moved more quickly but Turalyon had cautioned his soldiers not to overtake the orcs yet. They needed to know the location of that portal first. Then they could strike.

Lothar's death had shocked everyone, but it had also galvanized them. Men who had been weary were now focused, hard, and resolute. They had all taken the loss of their commander personally, and seemed determined to avenge his death. And they all accepted Turalyon as his chosen successor, especially those who had followed him to Quel'Thalas and back.

Slogging through the marshes was difficult and unpleasant, but other than muttering a little no one complained. Their scouts kept the orcs in sight and then reported back, allowing the Alliance troops to move at a slow pace and still not worry about losing their quarry. The Horde remnant was in general disarray, all the orcs heading the same direction but not marching together, simply jogging or walking at their own paces and with a handful of companions amid the larger group. Turalyon just hoped that remained the case. He assumed the Horde leader, that Doomhammer, had left troops and a lieutenant in charge of the portal itself. If that leader was strong enough he could fuse the defeated orcs back into a solid fighting force, along with whatever warriors he had with him already. Turalyon warned his lieutenants to keep the men alert and not let them get complacent. Assuming this would be an easy fight could get them all killed.

They spent another week in the swamps before finally reaching an area called the Black Morass. But here even Khadgar was in for a surprise.

"I don't understand," the mage commented, crouching to study the ground. "This should all be marsh! It should be just like what we've already been through, soggy and filthy and smelly." He tapped the hard red stone before him and frowned. "This is definitely not right."

"It looks almost igneous," said Brann Bronzebeard, who stood beside him. The dwarves had insisted on accompanying them the rest of the way, and Turalyon had been glad for both their battle prowess and their company. He found he liked the two brothers, with their bluff good cheer and their equal appreciation for a good fight, a good ale, and a fine woman. Brann was certainly the more scholarly of the two, and he and Khadgar had spent several evenings talking about obscure texts while the rest of them discussed less academic subjects. And all the dwarves from Ironforge were experts on rocks and gems, so for Brann to not recognize the rock beneath them was unsettling, to say the least. "But no fire I know could do this," he added, scraping at it with one blunt fingernail. "And certainly not to such a large expanse." For the red stone stretched ahead of them as far as they could see. "I've never seen the like."

"Unfortunately, I have," Khadgar replied, standing again. "But not on this world." He did not explain further and something in his expression warned the others not to press him.

Muradin started to ask anyway, but his brother stopped him. "Do ye know what your name means in Dwarven, lad?" Brann asked Khadgar. "It means ‘trust. " The mage nodded. "We trust ye, lad. You'll tell us when you're ready."

"Well, it's almost certainly tied to the orcs," Turalyon pointed out, "and we'll have an easier time pursuing them across stone than we would through more marshland, so I'm not opposed to the change in scenery." The others nodded, though Khadgar still looked thoughtful, and they mounted up again and continued on.

A few nights later, Khadgar glanced up from the campfire and suddenly announced, "I think we have a problem." The others all turned to listen to the young—old mage. "I have consulted with the other magi and we think we know what's caused the ground to change," he explained. "It's the Dark Portal itself. Its very presence is affecting our world, starting with the lands immediately around it. And I think it's spreading."

"Why would this portal cause such an alteration?" Uther asked. The Silver Hand leader had never been very comfortable with magi, sharing the common perception that their magic was unholy and possibly even demonic, but he had learned to at least accept and possibly even respect Khadgar during the long war.

But the mage shook his head. "I'd have to see it to be certain," he replied. "But I'd guess the portal is linking our two worlds, this one and the orcs' homeworld of Draenor, and it's doing more than just forming a bridge. Somehow it's melding the two together, at least right at its entry point."

"And their world is made of red stone?" Brann guessed.

"Not entirely," Khadgar answered. "Some time ago I had a vision of Draenor, however, and what I saw of it was a bleak place, with ground much like this. There is little life left there, as if nature itself has been stripped away. I think it may be their magics, which taint the land itself. That taint is spreading through the portal, and every time the orcs use their magics here it grows worse."

"All the more reason to destroy it, then," Turalyon announced. "And the sooner the better."

His friend nodded. "Yes, I agree. The sooner the better."

It was three more days before the scouts came back and announced that the orcs had stopped moving. "They're all holed up in a large valley just ahead," one of them announced. "And there's some kind of gateway in the center."

Khadgar exchanged a glance with Turalyon, Uther, and the Bronzebeard brothers. That had to be the Dark Portal.

"Tell the men," Turalyon said softly, drawing Lothar's broken sword with one hand and hefting his own hammer with his other. "We attack at once." Khadgar marveled once again at the changes the last few months had caused in his friend. Turalyon had become more stern, more commanding, more sure of himself—he had gone from being an untried youth to a seasoned warrior and an experienced commander. But since Lothar's death he had also had an aura about him, a sense of calm and wisdom and even majesty. Uther and the other Paladins had similar feels but more removed, as if they were above the problems of this world. Turalyon seemed to be more at one with the world around him, more attuned to his surroundings. It was a magic Khadgar did not understand, but one he respected a great deal. In many ways it was the opposite of his own magic, which sought to control the elements and other forces. Turalyon was not controlling anything, but by opening himself to those same forces he gained the ability to tap them, with less control but more subtlety than any mage.

The soldiers were readied, and they all crept forward, leading their horses to keep them at least quieter on the hard red stone. The ground rose up slightly and then dropped abruptly into a deep valley whose far walls reared even higher. At the center of the valley, as the scout had said, stood a massive gate, not set in any wall or structure but freestanding, and Khadgar gasped as he saw it fully. The Dark Portal—it could hardly be anything else—was easily a hundred feet high and almost as wide, and was crafted from some greenish gray stone. It had harsh, swirling patterns carved on either side, each based around a scowling skull, with two wickedly curved barbs along the outer edges. The centerpiece had a crude ornamental border below but was plain and unmarked above. Four wide steps led up to the portal itself, which glowed green and black and crackled with energy. And to Khadgar's senses it was a maelstrom, radiating power and a strange sense of vast distance. He could also feel it reaching out, digging into the land and pulling tendrils of energy into its gaping maw.

The orcs were milling about before the portal, as if unsure what to do now. There were more here than they had been following, so clearly Turalyon had been right—Doomhammer had left orcs here to guard the place. But the Alliance still outnumbered them. And the orcs were separated into distinct clusters, as if they no longer had reason to trust one another and so had reverted to their own families and hunting parties. This was not an army but a collection of small bands.

"Now!" Turalyon shouted, and he leaped over the edge of the cliff and slid down the long slope, landing almost on top of several orcs sitting there. Lothar's sword stabbed forward, impaling one orc on its jagged half—length, and then Turalyon' hammer struck another orc, crushing his skull and sending him careening into the first, who fell free of the sword and toppled to the ground. Then Uther and the rest of the Paladins were there as well, flanking Turalyon as he stood and stalked toward the other orcs, and the rest of the Alliance was right behind them.

Khadgar knew he was less useful in battle than wielding his magic, so he stayed upon the cliff with the other magi, watching the fight. It was quick and decisive. Lothar and Turalyon had forged the Alliance troops into a powerful unified force, and it fought as one now, with the men working together against a common foe. Pikemen were defending by swordsman and axe—wielders, and the archers watched over all of them and provided ranged support as needed. The orcs were too disorganized to work together, and each cluster stood and fought alone. That made it easy for Turalyon to send in his men, surround one orc band at a time, and either slaughter them or take them prisoner. He worked his way methodically across the valley, defeating orc after orc, and as many huddled in chains as lay dead upon the ground. By this time a large number of orcs, death knights, and others had fled through the portal rather than face death or capture. Only a small ragged group remained behind, standing its ground to cover the others' retreat.

Finally Turalyon had reached the bottom of the portal's bottom step. Two stocky, muscular orcs stood on the top step, each wielding massive, jagged axes. They had medals and bones hanging from their hair, their noses, their ears, their brows, and all over their armor, and their hair rose in a single mass of short dark spikes atop their heads, as if those too were weapons. One of the orcs had bloodstained bandages around his left shoulder and leg. Nevertheless, both orcs seemed arrogant and confident of victory, evidently unmoved by their leader's recent defeat.

"You face Rend and Maim Blackhand, of the Black Tooth Grin," one of them shouted as they stomped down the steps toward Turalyon. "Our father, Blackhand, led the Horde until that upstart Doomhammer slew him unjustly. Now he is gone we will rebuild the Horde until it is even larger than before, and we will smash you out of existence!"

"I think not," Turalyon replied, his words ringing across the valley. Against the backdrop of the portal's swirling energy he glowed a brilliant white, small and piercing. "Your leader is captured, your army destroyed, your clans in disarray, and what remains of your Horde gathered here in this one valley, which we have surrounded." He raised both hammer and sword. "Face me, if you dare. Or turn and flee back to your own world and never return."

The taunt worked, and the two brothers charged down the last step, leaping upon Turalyon with fierce battle cries. But the young Paladin and recent commander did not flinch. He took a quick step back and brought both hammer and sword down hard, knocking the orcs' axes down to the ground. Then he closed again and swept his own weapons back up, catching both orcs under the chin. The one to the left staggered back a pace, stunned, but his brother reeled, blood flying from the deep cut beneath his chin.

As Khadgar watched the two orcs growled and lashed out again, but their attacks were clumsier this time, more wild, and Turalyon avoided them both by the simple expedient of darting forward, between and past the two orcs. He struck them each in the stomach as he passed, doubling them over from the impact, and then kicked them both from behind, sending them tumbling from the ramp to the hard stone ground. He was right behind them, his weapons whistling as they arced through the air.

Unfortunately, the brothers were not alone.

"Clanmates, to us!" one of the brothers bellowed. "Kill the human!"

Two more orcs leaped into the fray, giving the Blackhands space to pull back. The brothers swung at some of the men approaching them, but to Khadgar their blows seemed half—hearted. They had clearly reconsidered their chances. A gap appeared in the Alliance forces approaching the portal and the orc brothers took advantage of it and ran. A handful of their brethren followed their example. But Turalyon was too busy to chase after them, however. Many of the other orcs remained to fight, some even spitting at and cursing the fleeing Blackhands. And the two who had moved to the Blackhands' aid were still menacing Turalyon himself.

"Rargh!" one of the newcomers growled, sweeping out with his axe. Turalyon blocked the blow with his hammer and battered the heavy orc weapon aside, then stabbed in with the broken sword, the blade piercing armor and flesh alike and driving deep into the orc's middle. The orc dropped his weapon and stiffened, gasping as his hands clutched at the blood—slick blade, and then he crumpled to the ground, his eyes already glazing over.

"Die!" the other orc howled and threw himself at Turalyon. But Turalyon had pulled the sword free of the first orc and now swung it at the second, catching him in the throat with the jagged tip. It was not enough to stop the charging warrior but Turalyon knocked his axe blow aside with the hammer and then swung again, the heavy hammer connecting solidly with the orc's head. The impact must have been tremendous because the orc warrior collapsed, blood pouring from his shattered temple, and did not move again.

Turalyon glanced down at the two dead bodies for a second, then toward the Blackhands disappearing at the far end of the valley. Then he looked up toward the ledge until he spotted Khadgar. "Do it now!" the Paladin shouted, pointing Lothar's blade at the portal. "Destroy it!"

"Get back!" Khadgar shouted in reply. "I don't know what will happen!" He barely noticed his friend nodding and trotting clear of the massive stone structure. Instead he and the eleven magi with him were already concentrating on the object.

He could feel its power, and its link to both this world and Draenor, and the rift it had fashioned to allow access between the two. The rift would simply swallow their magic, he suspected. And the worlds themselves were too large and too powerful for them to affect, even all of them together. Which left the physical gate itself. Because no matter how powerful it was, stone was still stone. And stone could be shattered.

Concentrating, Khadgar summoned the power to him, filling himself up with magical might. There was little power left in these lands but the Dark Portal itself had ample energy and nothing to safeguard that reservoir, to prevent people like the magi from tapping that power for their own ends. Khadgar and the other magi did so now, draining the portal's reserves utterly and directing all the energy into Khadgar himself. His hair stood on end and energy crackled across his face and along his fingers. The wind howled around him, and he thought he saw lightning nearby, though it could have simply been the energy arcing across and even through his eyes. He just hoped it was enough.

Facing the Dark Portal, Khadgar closed his eyes and opened his arms wide, his hands turned palm—up. He gathered all the magic he had just absorbed, every last bit of it, and bound it into something like a mystical ball that hung, pulsing and beaming, before his eyes. He could feel the ball, feel how it throbbed, and feel how loosely it was assembled. Perfect. He shifted his senses toward the portal, toward the energies there, and then he aligned himself with its position.

Then at last he opened his eyes.

And slammed his hands together, turning them at the last second so they met palm—to—palm. And the ball of energy was propelled forward, flattening and elongating and transforming from a simple sphere to a long slim shape, very like a different kind of spear.

A spear that lanced the portal right in the center, its energy pouring out and into the Dark Portal and across the stone slabs that formed its sides and top. The explosion rocked most of the Alliance soldiers and many of the remaining orcs from their feet, and Khadgar himself staggered on his perch. But the portal's heavy lintel and squared columns were blown apart. Fortunately for the Alliance forces nearby, the explosion drove most of the larger stone fragments into the portal's depths.

Then the portal itself vanished, the roiling colors replaced by simple empty space. And Khadgar felt the world draw breath again as whatever had bound it to Draenor snapped, ending the tug of that dying world and letting nature reassert itself.

Glancing down, Khadgar saw Turalyon picking himself up off the ground. The Paladin was covered with rock dust and small rock chips but looked otherwise unharmed, and he grinned up at Khadgar as he wiped the dust from his face, arms, and chest.

"I don't think they will be using that again," he called up, and they both laughed, their humor born of profound relief.

The war was over. And the Alliance had won. Their world was safe.