Chapter 84: Reopening the Dark Portal |
At the top of Watchtower was a circular meeting hall.
The five leaders of the Sons of Lothar had gathered here.
Turalyon stood at the head of the long table, both hands pressed against its surface. His brow was tightly knitted, his gaze fixed on the military map of the Blasted Lands spread across the table.
Alleria Windrunner sat on his left, her back ramrod straight. She wore light leather armor, and her long golden hair was braided into a single plait resting on her shoulder.
Khadgar stood by the window, his back to everyone. His white hair fluttered slightly in the wind, yet his youthful face carried a weariness that belied his age.
Danath Trollbane leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. A dent carved by an orc battle-axe marred his pauldron, one he hadn't had time to repair. His short brown hair stuck up in a mess, and a fresh stubble covered his chin.
Kurdran Wildhammer sat on a stone bench that was far too tall for him, his short, thick legs stretched out far.
His large nose was bright red, whether from the wind and sand of the Blasted Lands or from sneaking too much strong liquor the night before. The collar of his battle robe hung open, revealing a patch of hairy chest.
Turalyon looked up, his gaze landing on Kurdran. "The orc harassment is getting more frequent, High Thane. When will your Wildhammer gryphon riders finally arrive at Watchtower?"
Turalyon didn't answer. He simply looked at Kurdran, his eyes carrying no reproach, yet Kurdran couldn't help but shrink his neck.
Turalyon turned to Khadgar. "Archmage, what do you think?"
Khadgar sighed, turning from the window. The wind from the Blasted Lands tousled his white hair even more.
"Lately, I've had a nagging sense of foreboding," he said, his voice clear in the meeting hall. "I suspect the Horde might be planning something major soon."
Danath straightened up from the wall, his tone tinged with resignation.
"Oh, come on, Archmage. Since when did you become a prophet?" He paused. "Besides your premonitions, do you have any more concrete reasons?"
Khadgar shot him a defiant glare. "Can't I be a prophet? Don't forget, my teacher was one!"
But as soon as the words left his mouth, his expression darkened. Medivh's name was never an easy topic in this room.
Alleria looked up from the war report, her voice cool as she spoke. "Khadgar, my ranger corps is already on the way. If they've come all this way for nothing..." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I'll pluck every single hair from your beard."
Khadgar instinctively touched the sparse whiskers on his chin and quickly changed his tune. "Well, omens are hardly reliable."
He coughed dryly. "I saw an incredibly absurd prophecy a while back. Something like that could never happen."
Kurdran's interest was piqued. He stroked his beard and asked, "What prophecy?"
Khadgar gave a bitter laugh, waving his hands dismissively. "Nothing, nothing."
How could he ever admit that he'd secretly sneaked into the forbidden zone of Karazhan and seen a future where a dark wizard would save the Sons of Lothar?
Turalyon was a Paladin, after all. He was still a little afraid of this stubborn man.
"Sister! Sister!"
A clear voice rang out from outside the door, breaking the brief silence in the hall.
The door burst open, and Wen Laisa Windrunner rushed in, her silver hair flying behind her.
Alleria's expression softened instantly. She set down the war report and reached out to her sister. "What is it, Little Moon?"
The others in the room were long used to this.
Turalyon shifted slightly to make room for the Windrunner family's little sister. Danath leaned back against the wall, while Kurdran grinned and stroked his beard.
Wen Laisa held up a war report, her eyes blazing with excitement. "The black dragon Sabellian and the orcs attacked Menethil Harbor! They tried to seize ships to search the Endless Sea for Sargeras's scepter!"
Turalyon shot to his feet.
"And then? How did it go? Did they succeed?"
Wen Laisa waved the report, her voice echoing through the hall. "They failed! An Archmage named Allen Prestor stopped them!"
Danath let out a long breath, his tense shoulders relaxing. "Good to hear."
He rubbed the fresh stubble on his chin. "So, the orcs really were after those artifacts. Shouldn't we warn Dalaran?"
Khadgar didn't respond. His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze fixed on the war report in Wen Laisa's hand.
"Allen Prestor."
He repeated the name. "The one who killed Teron Gorefiend with you?"
The atmosphere in the room shifted subtly.
Alleria and Turalyon exchanged a glance, one filled with hidden amusement — they both knew about their little sister's secret crush.
Danath's eyes darted between Wen Laisa and the report twice before a look of dawning understanding crossed his face.
Khadgar remained silent.
He had met this young man in Darkshire.
Back then, he had intended to offer help, but he never expected the dark wizard to unleash such overwhelming shadow energy.
He wasn't the mage Khadgar had assumed to be chosen by fate. He was something darker, more dangerous.
He looked at Turalyon and Alleria and gave a slight shake of his head.
The Allen they had heard about — the gentle Alterac noble Wen Laisa frequently mentioned to her sister, the good young man of Stormwind, the honest and upright big boy — was not the same person he knew.
But he wasn't foolish enough to expose all that.
Given Turalyon's personality, once he met the young man, he'd understand on his own.
"Regardless," Turalyon's voice broke the brief silence, "this is good news."
He turned to the group. "Although Medivh's book was stolen from Stormwind, we've successfully stopped another Horde team from seizing Sargeras's scepter."
He paused. "After Menethil Harbor, they don't have many easy targets left. And even if they find one, it might not have the big ships needed to explore the Endless Sea."
Over the next few days, good news came one after another.
Alleria's ranger corps arrived first.
The High Elves wore silver chainmail and emerald-green cloaks, riding dragonhawks and tall warhorses.
Their long ears twitched slightly in the wind. The soldiers of Watchtower crowded the walls, staring at this elite force of High Elves, murmuring in amazement.
Soon after, the mages of the Kirin Tor arrived, led by Archmage Vargoth.
The first thing they did upon arrival was to set up a portal from Watchtower to Dalaran.
That evening, the clouds on the horizon burned a deep orange from the sunset.
Kurdran Wildhammer stood on the wall, craning his neck northward for a long time.
Then he saw it — a cluster of black dots emerged from beneath the clouds, growing larger and closer.
The screech of gryphons cut through the oppressive air of the Blasted Lands. Those massive beasts spread their wide wings, circling again and again over Watchtower, casting huge shadows.
The Wildhammer dwarves' gryphon riders had finally arrived.
Rare.
Since the Second War, so many races had gathered once more to stand together against the Horde's invasion.
Humans and dwarves stood on the walls, elves and mages lived in the tents, and the stables held warhorses, gryphons, and dragonhawks.
The newly built Watchtower had never been so crowded, nor so lively.
That night, the dwarves broke out the fine liquor they had carried over the long journey.
Kurdran was the first to raise his glass, singing an off-key mountain ballad in Dwarvish.
Turalyon, stone-faced, weaved through the crowd. He snatched a keg away from a Wildhammer dwarf who was trying to pour drinks down a soldier's throat. The dwarf glared, about to protest, but when he saw Turalyon's expressionless face, he muttered and pulled his hand back.
"Kurdran, are your gryphon riders going to knock out all my soldiers on their very first day at Watchtower?"
The entire Watchtower was buzzing with excitement.
Wen Laisa sat on the battlements, her legs dangling over the edge, gazing down at the torch-lit camp below.
The firelight flickered across her face, shifting between light and shadow.
In this atmosphere, Wen Laisa wrote a letter to Allen and sent it to Dalaran.
There were actually so many things she wanted to write in the letter, but since Allen hadn't sent her a single letter in so long, Wen Laisa pouted and left them out.
Late into the night, she returned to her room and fell asleep to the lively noise of Watchtower.
A deep, restful sleep.
She didn't know how long she had been asleep.
A distant sound suddenly broke into her dream.
First, a tremor in the earth. Very faint, like someone hammering the ground far away. Fine grains of sand trickled down from the cracks in the stone walls.
Wen Laisa turned over in her sleep.
Then came a blurred wave of noise, muffled by the walls and the night, twisted by the wind into an indistinguishable mess.
Her brow furrowed slightly.
In an instant, all the sounds rushed in at once. The chaotic clatter of iron boots on stone floors, someone screaming orders in Common.
And then there was the roar, surging in from outside the city like a tidal wave.
Wen Laisa's eyes snapped open.
That wasn't the sound of humans.
The war had begun.