"Ah, that feels better," the warlock remarked, rising to his feet and brushing off his robes. The bloodstain remained but he now moved without injury. "Your pet just saved your life," he told Rrxxar with a nasty grin.
"Yes, he did," Rcxxar replied softly, twirling both axes up and around. "But who will save yours?"
With a snap of his wrists and a roll of his shoulders the axes came arcing back down, to drive deep into the warlock's chest on either side of his head. Rexxar had put much of his considerable strength into the blows, and the warlock crashed to his knees as the impact drove him down, the axes ripping through him and leaving him to collapse in pieces upon the blood-soaked ground.
Rexxar stared at the body, panting, then turned to look at the spot where the wolf had died, the rage still roaring through him and thundering in his cars. He knelt and placed his hand, wet with the warlock's blood, on the dust for a moment.
"You are avenged, my friend," he said softly, "though I would you were still by my side." He took a bieath, rose, and channeled his grief and rage into action, calling out for the Warsong leader.
Grom looked up, saw Rexxar, and waved his axe to acknowledge the half-orc. One thing Rexxar had always liked about the Warsong leader — for all his savagery and violence, Grom had always given him the same respect he would show any warrior. He'd always shown Grom the proper respect in turn, but right now results were more important than manners.
"The portal!" Rexxar yelled, pointing. "Something is wrong!" Grom glanced toward the portal just as a handful of orcs staggered through. At first Rexxar's heart lifted, thinking the Horde had sent them help after all. But then he saw that these orcs were already battered and bleeding, and that they were running rather than marching — running as if fleeing something. Something on the Draenor side.
"Run!" one of them shouted as he barreled into an Alliance soldier hard enough to knock the man over, and kept right on going without even stopping to attack the prone target. "Run!"
"What is going on?" Grom demanded, and Rexxar shrugged, just as confused. They were both still staring toward the Dark Portal as the scene it framed changed from the crazed landscape of a moment before to an utter maelstrom of swirling color and then to complete darkness.
And then, it vanished.
A heartbeat later, the stone framework that had enclosed the Dark Portal, the rift between worlds, itself began to creak and groan. The sounds increased, straining, rising to a crescendo, and then the center snapped, the two massive halves toppling inward and colliding with a loud crack and a cloud of dust and rock chips. The support pillars fell next, knocked off-balance by the initial impact, and Rexxar ducked his head, pulling the edge of his hood over his mouth to avoid choking on die dust that billowed forth, orcs and humans alike were scattering, trying to escape the confusion and the debris.
"No!" someone was screaming, and other groans and cries filled the air. For his part, Rexxar was struck dumb, staring at the rubble that had once been a gateway between worlds. The portal — gone? Didn't that mean they could never go home? What would happen to them now?
Fortunately, one orc kept his head. "We will regroup!" Grom shouted, slapping Rexxar on the shoulder. "You gather everyone on that side, I'll get them from this side! Move toward the mouth of the valley!"
Rexxar was jarred from his paralysis and nodded, hurrying to obey. He let the hood fall again once he was clear of the swirling dust. He could still feel the panic within but forced it back by concentrating on the task Grom had assigned him. Every orc he saw, he directed back toward the valley's front, and whether because of his size, or the axes he wielded, or simply because they were desperate for orders, the orcs all obeyed without dispute. By the time Rexxar reached the mouth himself, Grom was back as well, and all the Horde members still on Azeroth were with them. Most of them looked as stunned as Rexxar felt.
"Grom! The portal is gone!" one of them wailed.
"What do we do?"
"Yes. The portal is gone. And the Alliance regroups," Grom announced loudly, gesturing to where the humans were gathering in front of what had been the portal just moments before. "They think we will be easy prey. They think we will be lost, and frightened without the portal. But they will be wrong. We are the Horde!"
His glowing red eyes scanned the crowd before him, and he lifted Gorehowl. "We head north, back to Stonard. We discover what happened to our world. We tend our wounded. We survive. Then we'll regroup so we can face the humans on our terms rather than theirs." He growled. "The Alliance closes in. Will they take us?"
A resounding "No!" lifted from what Rexxar privately feared was the last remnants of the orcish Horde. Grom grinned, tilted his head back, opened his black-tattooed jaw, and uttered his battle cry before he charged, his people following.
That one. Grom marched up to the orc sitting huddled beside the fire as they camped in Stonard that night. He was not dusty or bloody and Grom knew all his warriors. Grom clamped his hand down on the orc's shoulder and yanked him backward, looming over the orc, whose eyes were wide with surprise. Beside Grom towered Rexxar.
As easily as if he were hoisting a child, Grom lifted the orc and held him in the air. The orc's feet kicked and flailed. The Warsong chieftain leaned in close.
"Now," Grom said softly, a deep scowl on his face. "What in the name of the ancestors happened back there?"
Shivering, the orc frantically told all he knew. The other orcs listened. The only sound was the orc's rapid talking, the crackle of the fire, and the omnipresent sounds of the swamp at night. When he finished, no one spoke. They simply stared, shocked beyond speech.
Finally, after several minutes. Grom shook himself. "So," he growled, glaring at the others and half-shaming, half-intimidating them into looking away, shuffling their feet, and straightening up. "We prepare, then."
"Prepare?" Rexxar cried, and Grom turned to face the half-orc, half-ogre warrior. "Prepare for what, Hellscream? Our whole world is dead, our people are dead, and we're trapped here forever. Alone. What in the name of the ancestors should we prepare for?" Rexxar's grip on his axes was so tight. Grom thought he heard the stone hafts creaking from strain.
"We prepare for vengeance for the dead!" Grom snapped, an image of Garrosh leaping into his mind's eye once more. His son and heir. My boy, he thought; my boy. Dead, like all the rest. "We're all that's left!" he insisted, rounding upon the other orcs. "We are the Horde now! If we give up, it means the end of everything we knew, everything we cared about! Our race will not die unless we lie down and accept death like craven weaklings! If Ner’zhul's plans—"
"Ner’zhul!" Rexxar shouted, leaning down so his face was right by Grom's. "This must be his fault! Who else could have caused a world to shatter so? He betrayed us all! He said he would save Draenor and instead he destroyed it!"
"We don't know that!" Grom insisted. "We knew he was dealing with extremely powerful magic to open portals to other worlds. Perhaps something went wrong."
"Or maybe it went perfectly right — for him!" Rexxar countered furiously. "Maybe he was just using us, all of us, our entire world, to further his own ambitions. That's what Gul'dan did, isn't it?" Many of the assembled orcs grunted or murmured or snarled agreement — everyone knew of Gul'dan's betrayal and how it had cost them the Second War. “And who trained Gul'dan?" Rexxar continued. "Who taught him? Ner’zhul! Clearly the fruit did not fall far from the vine!"
The mutterings were louder and angrier now, and Grom knew he had to stop them before the group of warriors devolved into an angry mob.