"I'm not," Danath replied, making the soldier gasp and stare.
"You're not?" the boy asked, his voice faltering a little as he noted his commander's grim expression. "But why not, sir? We're going to trample them, aren't we? I heard that there weren't many orcs left anymore, and they're hiding in the woods and the mountains like wild animals!"
"The ones who got left behind when the portal closed, that's true," Danath agreed. "But that's not what we're dealing with here. They think the Dark Portal's going to reopen. Do you know what that means?" The soldier gulped, and Danath raised his voice to make sure the soldiers saddling their mounts around them could hear him as well. "It means we won't be facing a ragtag group of orc survivors, boy — we'll be facing the Horde, the largest fighting force ever seen. And that force has never been defeated, not in truth."
"But we won the war, sir!" one of the other men — Vann, Danath recalled — protested. "We conquered them!"
"That we did," he agreed. "But only because some of their own forces turned on them and we were able to crush them at sea. What we fought at Blackrock was only a portion of the true Horde, and even then it was a close thing." He shook his head. "For all we know, there could be as many as a dozen more clans back on the orcs' world, just waiting to break through again." He heard the muttering and gasping that swept through his men. "That's right, lads," he announced loudly. "We could well be heading toward our deaths here."
"Sir? Why are you telling us this?" Farrol asked quietly.
"Because I don't believe in lying about our chances," his commander answered. "You've a right to know what you'll be facing. And I don't want you going in thinking this'll be easy. Expect hard fighting, and stay sharp," he said, his tone shifting from advice to order. "Go in expecting trouble, and you're more likely to survive." He grinned suddenly. 'And then you can call yourselves Sons of Lothar."
All around him men nodded, more sober now. These were good men, if not as seasoned as he might wish. He already regretted the deaths he knew would come if the portal did indeed reopen. But they were sworn to defend the Alliance, even at the cost of their own lives. He just hoped they wouldn't be dying for nothing. Even though precious time was ticking past, Danath permitted himself a few moments to look at them, to memorize faces, summon names to mind. He had no children of his own; while they were under his command, he was father to these boys. Even if they all were Sons of Lothar. The thought made him smile slightly.
"Mount up, lads!"
Two minutes later, they were galloping down the cobblestone streets of Stormwind and out the main gates.
"Listen, do you hear that?"
Randal laughed. "You're getting jumpy, Willam," he told his friend. "It's just the wind." He glanced around, looking across the blasted landscape, and shivered. "Nothing to block it out here."
Willam nodded but still seemed uneasy. "Maybe you're right," he admitted, rubbing his face with one gloved hand. "I hate this detail. Why've we got to guard this thing, anyway? Isn't that what the magi are for?"
Both soldiers glanced behind them. If they squinted they could make out a shimmer in the air, just beyond a pile of old rubble. The distortion was narrow, perhaps the width of a man but twice as tall. They had been told that rift was all that remained of the Dark Portal, and that their task was to keep watch over it.
"Dunno," Randal replied. "You'd think if anything did happen the magi'd know before we did." He shrugged. 'At least it's an easy job. And our shift's over in another hour."
Willam started to say something else, then stopped, his eyes wide. "There!" he whispered. "Hear that?"
"Hear wh—"
Willam shushed him frantically. They sat stone-still for a moment, ears straining. And then Randal heard it. It was like a low moan, then a high whistle, as if the wind were sweeping across a wide plain before cutting through the valley around them. His eyes went back to the rift — and he gasped, almost dropping his shield and spear. It was wider now!
"Sound the alarm!" he told Willam frantically, but his friend was frozen in fear, eyes riveted on the sight before them. "Willam, sound the alarm!"
As Willam hurried to obey, the rift shimmered again, growing brighter, colors leaking out along its expanding edges. It seemed to split open, like a mouth ravenous for food, and shadows billowed forth. They spread rapidly, and Randal blinked, unable to see the rift or the rubble below it anymore. Even Willam had vanished, though he could hear his friend blowing on the horn, alerting the other guards.
Randal swiveled this way and that, trying to peer through the sudden darkness, his spear and shield at the ready. Was there something there? Or there? He strained to listen.
Was that a sound? A thud, as if something had rolled over — or dropped? Was that another?
Yes, he was sure he'd heard something now. He turned in the direction he thought it had come from, raising his spear slightly and hoping it wasn't Willam. Those definitely sounded like footsteps, heavy ones — and many of them.
"Hold!" Randal shouted, wishing his voice weren't shaking. "Who goes there? Stand and identify yourself, in the name of the Alliance!"
The steps grew closer, and he spun, trying to pinpoint their source. Were they behind him? Off to his side? Right in front of him? He turned slightly as the ground shook beneath his feet, raising his shield instinctively —
— and cried out as something heavy crushed it like paper, the impact shattering his arm as well.
Blinking away the pain, Randal thrust his spear forward, but something caught the weapon's long haft and wrenched it from his grip. A face appeared out of the darkness, inches from his own — a wide, heavy face, with a looming brow, squat nose, and two sharp tusks jutting up from the lower lip.
The horrifying face leered at Randal, and he had a brief glimpse of something else rushing toward him from the shadows, something wide and flat and curved. …
The other guards rallied, alerted by Willam's horn, but it was too little too late. The darkness filled the valley, preventing them from even seeing their foes, and while the humans blundered about in confusion, orc warriors and death knights poured out of the newly expanded rift, crushing everyone in their path. It was more of a slaughter than a true battle. Within minutes every human defender was dead or dying, and the orcs controlled the Azeroth side of the Dark Portal.
CHAPTER SIX
Whispers.
Soft susurrations, barely heard unless listened for. The flutter of a bird's wings in flight, the sound of a leaf drifting toward the earth… these were louder than the whispers that teased at Ner'zhul's ears.
But he heard them.
He held the skull in his hands, gazing deeply into empty eye sockets, and heard Gul'dan's voice. It sounded to him as it had in life — sycophantic, anxious for approval, eagerly answering questions and offering solutions; and yet simultaneously barely hiding a vast contempt and lust for power.
Gul'dan, in death, hoped to lull his former master into the same false sense of security he had when he lived. But Ner'zhul would not be duped a second time. Inadvertently Ner'zhul had betrayed his people with his gullibility, and this orc whose skull rested in his gnarled hands had risen to power by thinking he had ground the old shaman into the dirt.
'Who is alive and in power, and who is dead, eh, my apprentice?" he whispered to the skull.
He blinked suddenly, startled out of his conversation with the skull as light flooded his traveling tent. A figure stood silhouetted against the daylight that knifed through the gloom of the tent's interior.