"The damage has sundered reality as we know it," Khadgar continued. "Gravity, space, perhaps even time itself no longer function properly here."
Khadgar's words were swallowed by a tearing sound beneath them. Turalyon grabbed his arm with one hand and Alleria's with the other, instinctively tugging them both back toward what had been the rest of the land.
"Fall back!" Turalyon shouted, though he wasn't sure the men could hear him over the rending of the earth or the howling of the winds overhead. "Back away from the rift!" They could see him, however, and he gestured to the west, toward Honor Hold. They ran then, all order forgotten in their panic.
And not a moment too soon. As Turalyon pulled Khadgar and Alleria along, the ground beneath their feet began to crumble. They hurled themselves toward the ground beyond, barely reaching it before the ledge behind them collapsed, chunks of rock and earth falling away. Before, the Dark Portal had been partially encircled by mountains to the east, and beyond that had been the sea. Now most of the mountains had vanished, and, shockingly, so had the waves. Only empty space waited to swallow the falling debris, as the world's remains now hung in a great yawning darkness shot through with ripples and flashes of light here and there.
"Sir," one of the men piped up. "Wasn't… wasn't that where the rift was?"
"Yes," Turalyon said. "It was." The rift through which they had first fled Draenor and then returned to it had indeed been on that ledge, and had collapsed when the earth beneath it had shattered, leaving behind only the remnants of the Dark Portal.
There was silence, and Turalyon sensed their growing despair. "Look there," he told them, spotting a familiar cluster of buildings a short distance away. "Honor Hold still stands. We built it to serve as our stronghold here on Draenor, and so it will be."
He turned to look at them — dusty, bloody, exhausted. "We knew when we came through we might not be returning. Light, we expected to die — but we didn't. The portal's closed. We did what we came here to do. What we do now — that's up to us. There are others still out there — we need to find them, bring them back. We'll explore. Make new allies. Keep fighting the Horde, whatever's left of it here, so they don't ever try to do something like this again. The Light is still with us. We still have a job to do. This world will be what we choose to make of it."
Alleria stepped beside him, her eyes shining. He squeezed her hand tightly. Turalyon glanced over at Khadgar, who nodded, his young eyes crinkling in an approving smile. The paladin again looked toward his men. They were still worried. Still unsure. But the despair and panic were gone.
This world will be what we choose to make of it.
"Come on," Turalyon said, and pointed to Honor Hold. "Let's go home."
EPILOGUE
"Ner'zhul!"
The orc shaman and Horde warchief cried out at the sound of his name, his eyes flicking open. At once the strange swirling nothingness all around him assaulted his senses, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to force away the welter of sensation that threatened to drive him mad. Then, through the thrums and howls and cracklings, he heard it again.
"Ner’zhul!"
Blinking, he glanced around him. A short ways away — or so it seemed, though an instant later he would have sworn it was miles distant — Ner’zhul saw a dark form. It was shaped like an orc, and a longer look confirmed it, revealing green skin and tusks and long braids. Definitely an orc, and one Ner’zhul recognized as one of his own Shadowmoon warriors. The warrior did not move, however — Ner’zhul thought he saw the other orc's chest rising and falling, but in this place he could not be sure of anything.
Other shapes littered the strange maelstrom of light and shadow. All those who had followed him through the rift appeared to be here with him.
The question was, where was here? Why hadn't the rift led them to another world? For whatever this place might be, Ner’zhul was sure it was not a normal world. What had happened? Why was he awake and aware, while all the others were trapped in a deep sleep?
A column of light rolled past, and for an instant Ner’zhul saw echoing glimmers around each of the other orcs — and around himself. His eyes widened, then clamped shut as they overloaded from the sights assaulting them. But he knew what he had seen. They were trapped indeed — something was binding them to this place!
"Ner’zhul!" His name wafted across the strangeness yet again, but this time Ner’zhul felt something tug upon his chest and his limbs. The other orcs receded rapidly, or perhaps he was the one moving while they remained locked in place — it was impossible to tell here. But within minutes Ner’zhul was alone, the rest of his orcs only distant shadows.
And then a larger, darker shadow fell across him, and he looked up —
— into the face of wrath itself.
Before Ner’zhul hung a massive being arrayed in heavy armor of etched blood-red metal. The figure's face resembled that of a draenei, intelligent-looking and clever, but with bright red skin and a demonic cast. The creature had short, curving horns rising from his high temples, and two strange protrusions like tentacles extending below his mouth and well past the short beard covering his chin. Several earrings gleamed, and the creature's eyes glowed a deep yellow.
And Ner’zhul knew him at once.
"Great One!" Ner’zhul gasped, doing his best to bow though his limbs were still bound somehow.
"Ah, Ner’zhul, my unfaithful little servant," replied Kil'jaeden, demon lord of the Burning Legion. "Did you think I had forgotten about you?"
"No, Great One, of course not." In truth Ner’zhul had hoped so, and after the first few years had begun to think it true. Now his heart sank as the demon lord continued speaking.
"Oh, I have been watching you closely all this time, Ner’zhul," Kil'jaeden assured him. "You cost me a great deal, you know." The demon lord laughed, a chilling, grating sound. “And now you shall pay for such failure!"
"I—" Ner’zhul began, but his brain could barely formulate words.
"You could not leave well enough alone," Kil'jaeden finished for him. "I knew that eventually you would try yet again to cast magics you were not ready to handle and did not understand. I waited, knowing that some day your own arrogance would bring you to me." He spread his gauntleted hands wide. “And here we are!" His eyes narrowed to mere slits. "You have dreamed of death. You thought to escape it. Now, my little puppet, death will be all you ever know."
Brief glimpses scared Ner’zhul's brain: Agony as pieces of flesh were torn from his still-living body; the dead surrounding him, closing in on him, their blood on his hands, his own blood coating them, a morbid union of death, life, and excruciating torment.
"No!" Ner’zhul shouted, thrashing about, trying everything to free himself from his invisible bonds. "My people still need me!"
Laughter shook the demon's powerful form, a horrible, eerie sound that made Ner’zhul's heart spasm.
"I know full well they mean nothing to you. So do not worry," the demon lord whispered, stabbing the tip of one long finger into Ner’zhul's check. The motion burned, sending spikes of heat and pain through Ner’zhul's flesh. "There is no saving them. Do you not yet understand? Little puppet, you cannot even save yourself."
Then he twisted that finger, the rest of his splayed hand latching onto Ner’zhul's face, and the orc shaman let his head fall back, a horrible scream wrenching its way out past his trembling lips.
He knew it was but the first of many.