He could feel its power, and its link to both this world and Draenor, and the rift it had fashioned to allow access between the two. The rift would simply swallow their magic, he suspected. And the worlds themselves were too large and too powerful for them to affect, even all of them together. Which left the physical gate itself. Because no matter how powerful it was, stone was still stone. And stone could be shattered.
Concentrating, Khadgar summoned the power to him, filling himself up with magical might. There was little power left in these lands but the Dark Portal itself had ample energy and nothing to safeguard that reservoir, to prevent people like the magi from tapping that power for their own ends. Khadgar and the other magi did so now, draining the portal's reserves utterly and directing all the energy into Khadgar himself. His hair stood on end and energy crackled across his face and along his fingers. The wind howled around him, and he thought he saw lightning nearby, though it could have simply been the energy arcing across and even through his eyes. He just hoped it was enough.
Facing the Dark Portal, Khadgar closed his eyes and opened his arms wide, his hands turned palm—up. He gathered all the magic he had just absorbed, every last bit of it, and bound it into something like a mystical ball that hung, pulsing and beaming, before his eyes. He could feel the ball, feel how it throbbed, and feel how loosely it was assembled. Perfect. He shifted his senses toward the portal, toward the energies there, and then he aligned himself with its position.
Then at last he opened his eyes.
And slammed his hands together, turning them at the last second so they met palm—to—palm. And the ball of energy was propelled forward, flattening and elongating and transforming from a simple sphere to a long slim shape, very like a different kind of spear.
A spear that lanced the portal right in the center, its energy pouring out and into the Dark Portal and across the stone slabs that formed its sides and top. The explosion rocked most of the Alliance soldiers and many of the remaining orcs from their feet, and Khadgar himself staggered on his perch. But the portal's heavy lintel and squared columns were blown apart. Fortunately for the Alliance forces nearby, the explosion drove most of the larger stone fragments into the portal's depths.
Then the portal itself vanished, the roiling colors replaced by simple empty space. And Khadgar felt the world draw breath again as whatever had bound it to Draenor snapped, ending the tug of that dying world and letting nature reassert itself.
Glancing down, Khadgar saw Turalyon picking himself up off the ground. The Paladin was covered with rock dust and small rock chips but looked otherwise unharmed, and he grinned up at Khadgar as he wiped the dust from his face, arms, and chest.
"I don't think they will be using that again," he called up, and they both laughed, their humor born of profound relief.
The war was over. And the Alliance had won. Their world was safe.
EPILOGU
"It will be an impressive monument," Turalyon comented. He and Khadgar sat their horses near the cliff's edge, looking out over the same plain where Lothar had fought his final battle months before. The landscape was bleak, brutal, and harsh, all black stone and hardened lava except where fresh lava glowed red amid the shadows. The air was thick with ash and soot, and the sky seemed perpetually overcast. The mountains loomed like disapproving guardians. Blackrock Spire rose at the far end.
"It will," Khadgar agreed. "His sacrifice will always shine as a symbol of loyalty and bravery, even after other traces of this war have vanished."
Turalyon nodded, his gaze still focused upon the statue that was being raised before Blackrock Spire. Regent Lord Anduin Lothar, Champion of Stormwind and Commander of the Alliance, stood with sword raised and shield at the ready, looking to the skies as if daring them to battle. He was dressed in full armor but without his helm, and his strong features stared out across the valley, his gaze stern but kind.
"At least it's over," Khadgar said.
It was true. That battle at the Dark Portal had been the last. Those few orcs who had survived had surrendered and been taken prisoner. No one was quite sure what to do with them, and for now they had been put to work hauling materials for Lothar's monument, an irony Turalyon appreciated. Once this was done, perhaps the orcs would be sent to do more hard labor elsewhere. He doubted they would be slaughtered but neither could they be set loose, in case they dreamed of creating a Horde once more. Some, including the Blackhands, had escaped, but they lacked the numbers to pose a serious threat now.
Still, that was not his concern. Terenas and the other kings would make that decision, when the time came. After Lordaeron had been cleansed Terenas had marched his forces into Alterac and declared martial law, deposing the traitorous Perenolde and imprisoning him. Alterac's fate was still uncertain, but the Alliance would continue, and the remaining monarchs had asked Turalyon to remain as its Commander. He had accepted, feeling Lothar would have wanted him to continue in that role. His friend and mentor had only wanted to protect the land and its people, and he vowed to do the same.
"You're thinking heavy thoughts," Khadgar commented, nudging him in the arm.
"Only about the future and what it may bring," Turalyon replied.
"No one knows the future," his friend said, though a strange look crossed his face. "Though I suspect we have not seen the last of the Horde or its world."
"I hope you are wrong," Turalyon told him. "But if you are right, we will be here waiting for them when they return. And we will drive them back again, just as we did this time. This world is ours, and by the Holy Light we will keep it safe, now and forever."
The mage laughed. "A noble statement, good Turalyon," he teased. "Perhaps that is what they will carve on your statue, when the time comes."
"A statue?" Turalyon laughed. "What could either of us possibly do to earn statues?"
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, massive thanks go to Chris for starting the tide and to Marco for controlling it. I'd also like to thank Evelyn for her sharp eyes and kind words. Most importantly I'd like to thank the World of Warcraft fans, without whom Lothar and Orgrim and the others would have no one to tell their tale.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AARON ROSENBERG is originally from New Jersey and New York. He returned to New York City in 1996 after stints in New Orleans and Kansas. He has taught college—level English and worked in corporate graphics and book publishing.
Aaron has written novels for Star Trek, StarCraft, Warcraft, Warhammer, and Exalted. He also writes role—playing games and has worked on the Star Trek, WarCraft, and Warhammer games. He writes educational books as well.
Aaron lives in New York City with his family. For more information about his writing you can visit him online at www.rosenbergbooks.com.