Pigeons were released to the other Alliance leaders and to the last known location of the Alliance army, in the Hinterlands. One of those pigeons flew straight to Stromgarde, and its message was quickly untied and brought straight to Thoras Trollbane, Stromgarde's gruff master.
"What?" Trollbane shouted when he had read the message. He had been drinking ale from a heavy wooden mug and now he hurled the mug at the far wall, where it shattered, leaving a streak of ale and wood splinters down to the floor. "That fool! What did he do, let them through?" Trollbane despised Perenolde—not only were they neighbors and thus rivals over borderlands but he personally disliked the man. He was too oily, too smooth by far. But even an arrogant, overdressed idiot like Perenolde should have been able to block an invading army! Perhaps not stop them completely—if the Horde was as numerous as Lothar had claimed, and as subsequent reports had confirmed, they could muscle their way through regardless—but at least slow them down significantly, inflict heavy damage, and warn Lordaeron early enough for them to prepare properly. With the orcs already on the plains by the lake, Terenas would not have time to do much more than close his gates and brace for the first assault.
Trollbane stood and began pacing, the message slip still clenched unnoticed in his fist. He wanted to go to his friend's aid, but wasn't sure that would be the best course of action. Terenas was a fine strategist, and his guards were among the finest in the land, his gates and walls strong and thick. They could hold out against the first wave, he was sure of that. The danger lay in letting the full Horde roll down from the mountains and swarm Capital City with sheer numbers.
"Damn him!" Trollbane beat his fist against the arm of his heavy chair as he passed it. "Perenolde should have held them! He should at least have warned us! Even he is not that incompetent!" He paused mid—stride as another thought struck him. Perenolde had never been enthusiastic about the Alliance. He and Graymane had been the only two to resist, Trollbane remembered. He thought back to the meetings in Capital City, with Lothar and Terenas and the others. Yes. Graymane had spurned the idea, but mainly because he boasted that Gilneas could crush anyone foolish enough to invade them. But Perenolde had disliked the idea of combat. Trollbane had always thought his neighbor a coward at heart, and something of a bully—he was perfectly willing to fight when he knew he held the upper hand, but hated to engage in combat if it put him at any risk. And Perenolde had been the one to suggest they try negotiating first.
"That fool! That traitorous little fool!" Trollbane kicked his chair hard enough to send it skittering across the granite floor. He had done it, hadn't he? He had negotiated with the Horde! Trollbane knew he was right. Perenolde cared nothing for others, only for his own hide. He would happily make a deal with demons if it kept him and his own lands safe. And that was exactly what he had done. It all made perfect sense now. The reason the Horde had made it through the mountains without anyone raising the alarm, the reason Perenolde had not responded or warned anyone. He had let them pass. Presumably for some promise of leniency or continued autonomy after the war.
"Rargh! Infuriated beyond words, Trollbane snatched his axe from where it hung on the column beside his chair and hacked at the table in front of him, shattering it with a single blow. "I'll kill him!" he bellowed. His warriors and nobles shrank back, alarmed, and only their reaction reminded Trollbane that he was not alone. And that personal vengeance would have to wait. The war came first.
"Assemble the troops," he instructed his startled guards. "We are going to Alterac."
"But, sire," his guard captain replied, "we've already sent half our troops out with the main Alliance army!"
Trollbane frowned. "Well, there's nothing for it. Grab everyone you can find."
"Are we lending them aid, sire?" one of the nobles asked.
"In a manner of speaking," Trollbane replied, hefting his axe again and grinning at the man. "In a manner of speaking."
Anduin Lothar raised his visor and glanced around, wiping grit and sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand as he idly drew his sword across the body of a fallen orc, cleaning the blade of the blood and gore that coated its length.
"Is that the last of them, sir?" one of his soldiers asked.
"I don't know, son," Lothar replied honestly, his eyes still roving the trees. "I hope so, but I wouldn't count on it."
"How many of these things are there?" another soldier demanded, pulling his axe free of the orc at his feet. The small clearing was littered with bodies, not all of them orcish. It had been a nasty little skirmish, and the branches above were too close for the Wildhammers to bring their gryphons to bear so it had been entirely up to Lothar and his men. They had won, but only because the small band of orcs had apparently wandered away from the rest of the orc forces.
"Too many," Lothar replied absently. He grinned at his men then. "But fewer now, eh?" They smiled back and Lothar felt a surge of pride. Some of these men were from Lordaeron, some from Stromgarde, one or two from Gilneas and even Alterac, and a few had come with him from Stormwind. But over the past few weeks they had set their regional differences aside. They were now Alliance soldiers, and fought together as brothers, and he was proud of them. If the rest of the army meshed as well as this one group did, there was hope for them all, both in this war and in the peace he hoped would follow afterward.
Then he caught a flicker of movement off to one side. "Be ready," he warned, dropping his visor back down and sinking into a wary crouch, his sword rising to point toward the motion. But the figure that burst through the trees was not an orc but a human, one of his own soldiers.
"Sir!" the man gasped, clearly winded. He did not seem harmed, however, and his sword was still by his side. "Messages, sir!" Then Lothar realized the man had a scrap of parchment in one hand, and was holding it out to him.
"Thank you," he said, taking the message. A soldier handed the messenger a waterskin, which he gratefully accepted. But Lothar was busy reading the words scribed onto the small scrap, and the warriors around him tensed as they saw his jaw tighten beneath his helm.
"What is it, sir?" one of them asked finally, as Lothar glanced up, balling the parchment between finger and thumb and flicking it away like a troublesome insect. "Is there a problem?"
Lothar nodded, still digesting the information he had just received. "The Horde has made its way to Lordaeron," he said softly, eliciting a gasp from several soldiers. "They are probably attacking the capital even now."
"What can we do?" One of the men—one of those from Lordaeron, Lothar remembered—asked urgently. "We need to set out right away!"
But Lothar shook his head. "There's too much distance between us," he told the soldier sadly. "We'd never reach it in time." He sighed. "No. We need to finish our work here, to make sure the orcs they left in the Hinterlands are dead or driven off. We cannot allow the Horde to retain a foothold here, where they could then sweep back up or down to anywhere else on the continent."
His men nodded, though they did not look pleased about the prospect of wandering the woods seeking strays while their friends and families faced the rest of the Horde alone. Lothar could hardly blame them. "Turalyon and the rest of the Alliance army are already on their way," he assured them, making several warriors look up hopefully. "He will come to the city's aid." He gripped his sword tightly. "And when we are done here we will march to Capital City and mop up any orcs that have fled his attack."