"Danath Trollbane, isn't it?" the mage asked. "1 thought you were with Turalyon?"
Danath nodded, both in confirmation of the mans statement and in recognition of Khadgar's identity, and sucked in air to speak. "Close the gate and arm your men! The Horde is here!"
Khadgar's eyes widened, but he did not argue. He signaled with his hand and men rushed to obey his silent commands. The gate was closed as someone came to take Danath's poor overworked mount and another approached with a waterskin. "What's happened?"
"Turalyon sent me with half the men we had at Stormwind." Danath gulped down water, warm but wet, and nodded cursory thanks to the man who'd brought it to him. "We left as soon as he received your message. He'll follow with the rest." He shook his head, wiping his mouth. "We were too late. The orcs have already rebuilt the portal, and they were waiting for us there. My boys… never stood a chance."
Khadgar nodded, his eyes somber. "I am sorry for their loss, but your warning gives us time to prepare. If the Horde plans to invade Azeroth again they will have to get past us first. And Nethergarde was built for this. They will not find this keep so easily taken."
"How will you defend it?" Danath asked, sufficiently recovered from his ride to glance around. "Doesn't look like you have that many soldiers, and I don't see any ballistae or other siege engines along the walls."
"We do not have many soldiers, it is true," Khadgar agreed. "But that does not mean we are without defenses, or weapons. You will see."
"I suppose I will." Danath bared his teeth in a smile. “And when they come, I will be waiting."
The orcs arrived an hour later.
They swept up the path, filling the trail like water roiling down a narrow chute, elbowing each other aside in their haste to reach the keep's sturdy outer walls. Danath and Khadgar stood upon one of the taller parapets, watching the scene below.
"Damn… there are hundreds of them," Danath whispered, watching the Horde literally fill the plain before the keep and advance in a great sheet of flesh and weaponry. In the thick of the battle, he had not been able to notice the sheer numbers.
"Indeed," Khadgar said. The young-old mage did not seem concerned. "Not as many as during the Second War, though — either they lost much of their strength in those battles or they are withholding part of their full force now." He shrugged. "Not that it matters. We will deal with whatever they throw at us. You inquired about the keep's defenses? Watch."
He pointed, and Danath made out splashes of color all along the walls. Men and women stood there, clad in violet robes much like Khadgar's own. The archmage nodded then, and all the magi raised their hands as one. Danath felt his hair stand on end, and heard a faint hum. Then lightning arced down, destroying the first wave of orcs and scattering many of those behind them.
"Impressive," Danath acknowledged, his ears ringing from the accompanying thunderclap. "But how many times can they do that?"
Khadgar smiled. "I expect we're about to find out."
Turalyon crouched low over his horse, urging it on to greater speed. Even though he knew that waiting for reinforcements in the form of Alleria's rangers had been wise, something inside him insisted that they might be too late — that something was already happening at Nethergarde. He wasn't sure if it was a soldier's instinct or his own insecurities, but the paladin, normally gentle with beasts, kicked his horse again and again.
Beside him rode his men, Alleria, and her rangers. Alleria threw him a curious look, noting his spurring of the mount, but stayed silent. He glanced over at her, wanting to explain somehow, but all that came out was "Something's happening already."
She opened her mouth for a quip, but closed it when she saw the look on his face. Instead, she simply nodded, and bent over to whisper in her horse's ear. He realized she believed him, and for a moment, the worry and fear abated before a quick warmth.
The ride seemed to take forever. Through the meadows and rolling hills of Goldshire and the little town of Darkshire, through the gray land that was aptly named Deadwind Pass, near where Medivh had lived in Karazhan, into the muddy, malodorous Swamp of Sorrows. But now the land was changing, and Turalyon felt a lurch inside him as he noticed it. The foliage, though decomposing and unpleasant-smelling, was at least a sign of life. The ground beneath them was starting to turn red and dry, almost desertlike.
Alleria frowned. "It… feels dead," she said, shouting to be heard over the thunder of horses' hooves. Turalyon nodded, unable to spare breath. They pressed on through the bare landscape, cresting a small hill. There, rising like a white peak above the blood-red surroundings, was the keep. He drew his horse to a halt, straining to see what it was that nagged at his mind, and murmured, "Something's wrong."
Alleria shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun. She could see better than he, and when she gasped, Turalyon knew he'd been right.
"It's under attack!" she cried. "The Horde — Turalyon — it's like seeing the force from the Second War all over again! There must be hundreds of them!" The tone in her voice was half horror and half glee, and the cold-hot smile of hate and rage had twisted her face again. He recalled their conversation upon her arrival in Stormwind. It certainly looked like Alleria was going to get the chance to exterminate a lot of "vermin." He hated to see her so hungry for death — and feared that that hunger might make her reckless.
'We're almost upon them," he said, to her and to his commanders, who had drawn up beside him. "We'll strike from behind, pinning the orcs between Nethergarde and us. Once we've defeated them we'll enter the citadel and fortify its defenses in case they attack again. Let's go."
They raced toward the last rise. Right before they crested it, Turalyon again called a halt. Just beyond them the trail climbed a final time, past boulders and up a short incline, and then the plateau opened before them. From here, they could see it all.
Ores, hundreds of them, were battering at Nethergarde's walls, though the keep thus far seemed to be weathering the attack with ease. Here and there were orc bodies. Turalyon saw at least one with an arrow through its neck; several others were badly charred, but some corpses seemed unharmed. He glanced up, spying the violet-robed figures upon the fortress's parapets, and despite the direness of the situation, he smiled slightly as he understood.
"We need to strike before they realize we're here. Rally the men and charge upon my command." His commanders, including Alleria, nodded and moved off to their own units, passing orders quietly. Weapons were drawn, straps were tightened, shields and visors were lowered, and the army advanced. Turalyon and the others crept forward, covering the last distance before the plateau, their horses' feet muffled by the dust; thank the Light, the orcs were too busy shouting and cursing and grunting to hear their approach.
It was time. They had gotten as far as stealth would take them. Turalyon took a deep breath and raised his hammer high over his head.
"Sons of Lothar!" he shouted, the power of the Holy Light magnifying his voice so it carried to everyone under his command. "For the Alliance—-for the Lightl"
His soldiers roared behind him, and several hundred throats uttered their own battle cries. Turalyon swung the hammer down and forward, and the charge began.
Some of the rearmost orcs heard his shout and turned, only to be trampled by the surging horses. Others were taken unawares, slain before they could even see the threat racing up from behind. From the fortress men cheered as Turalyon and his forces swept forward, laying about them with hammers and axes and swords. Alleria and her rangers fired arrow after arrow, drawing and nocking with inhuman speed, their aim unerring, their horses never breaking stride. In a surprisingly short time Turalyon had won through to Nethergarde's enormous front gates, which swung open as he approached. Turalyon hesitated, looking back over the battle. His eyes met Alleria's. He gestured toward the gate. She frowned slightly — she was as reluctant as he to leave the thick of battle, but they were the leaders of their units and she knew, as he did, that they should speak with the commander of the keep as soon as they could.