"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.

When she nodded, Turalyon spurred his steed through the narrow gap, crushing an orc that tried to follow. Alleria was beside him, close enough that her leg brushed against his, and then the gates shut again behind them.

"Ah, good, Alleria — you've brought Turalyon to us just in time." Turalyon turned toward the speaker and smiled as he recognized Khadgar. Roughly they em­braced; Turalyon had missed the friend he'd grown to so like and admire as they worked together through the Second War. He wished they were not reuniting under these circumstances. Alleria gave the mage a curt nod.

"I came as fast as I could," Turalyon said. He spied another man he recognized, and he smiled in relief. "Danath," he greeted his second-in-command. "I am glad to see you're safe." He glanced around. "But… where are your men?"

"Dead," Danath replied curtly.

"By the Light… all of them?" Turalyon whispered. Danath had taken fully half the warriors of Stormwind. Danath gritted his teeth at the words.

"The orcs had a nice little trap ready for us when we reached the valley. They slaughtered my boys before they could react." Danath's voice cracked ever so slightly. "My boys," he had called them. Turalyon real­ized Danath blamed himself for the deaths. "They sac­rificed themselves that I might reach here and warn Khadgar of the Horde's approach."

"They did the right thing. And so did you," Turalyon assured his friend and subordinate. "It is an awful thing, to lose the men under your command, but alert­ing Nethergarde was the first priority." He frowned. "Khadgar — we need to figure out why they're attack­ing now."