Alleria frowned up at him, concerned, but saw that he was not going to explain further. "It is—" She closed her mouth, unable to find the words. She put a hand to her heart as if it physically hurt, and for a moment Khadgar roused from his own despair to pity her. She was an elf, a child of forests and trees and growing, healthy lands. She looked stunned, sickened — almost as sick as Khadgar felt. Out of nowhere, a wind kicked up. With no plants to anchor the soil, the greedy blast seized the dead, dusty soil and scoured them with it. They all coughed, and reached for something, anything, to cover mouths and noses and eyes.

This was it. Khadgar suddenly realized that in step­ping through the portal, he had stepped forward into a destiny he had hoped would be a long time coming. In the vision, he looked as he had now — an old man. And now he was here. Damn it, I'm just twenty-two… . Am I going to die here? he thought sickly, trying to recover. I've hardly even lived —

The wind died down as quickly as it had come. "Ugly place," Danath Trollbane said, coughing as he drew up alongside them. Khadgar latched onto the steady warrior's matter-of-fact demeanor for support. 'And is it me or do the Blasted Lands look a lot like this, as well?"

Khadgar nodded. It was good to have something else to focus on. "Their, uh — this world was leaking into ours through the rift. And whatever caused this damage — I suspect it was their warlocks and the dark magic they wield — began affecting ours as well." He forced himself to analyze their surroundings with a dis­passionate eye. It was not just dead, it looked like this world had been sucked dry. What had the orcs done to this place?

"We managed to halt the process on Azeroth, thank the Light. But clearly the land here has suffered the same injury, only for much longer. I suspect this world was far more benign once."

Alleria frowned. "The road… it—" She went sud­denly pale, then her lovely face contorted in anger. "Those… monsters . . ."

Turalyon had cantered up beside her. "What is it?"

"The road . . ." Alleria seemed unable to find the words. She tried again. "It's… it's paved with bones."

They all fell silent. Surely Alleria was mistaken. The road she indicated was no small path. It was a road proper, meant for dozens to ride abreast. For huge en­gines of war to traverse. It was wider than the bridge over the water that led into Stormwind, and so long that it trailed out of sight.

For it to be paved with bones would mean that hun­dreds… no, no… thousands of bodies had —

"Merciful Light," a young man whispered. He'd gone starkly white, and murmurs rose behind him. Even as the troops registered this horrific information, the enemy showed itself. Only a few orcs had been near the Dark Portal when they'd passed through. Khadgar had hoped they'd be the only ones they'd fight upon entering the orcs' world, but those few had had time to summon reinforcements. Along a ridge beyond the road of the dead, Khadgar could now see dozens of orcs, their weapons glinting in the harsh red light.

For the first time since this whole nightmare with the rift had started, Khadgar thought the soldiers might falter.

"It's a small army," he said softly. Orcs had been in his vision as well, orcs standing on a ridge, bellowing and snarling and cursing.

"We have an army of our own," Alleria said, looking at Turalyon.

"We do," Turalyon replied, emotion making his voice crack. He too had been shaken by their first sight of this world, but now he wore a look of passionate re­solve. “An army that will stand between the orcs and those they would harm. That will not stand by and watch its own world suffer, as this poor place has." He looked back at his troops.

"Sons of Lothar," he shouted. "This is the fight we were made for! More than ever before, we fight for our world now! We will not permit them to do to us or others what they have done here!" His voice carried, clear and pure and strong, as bright and shining as the hammer he now lifted. "For Stormwind! For Lordaeron, and Ironforge, and Gnomeregan. For Azeroth!"

So be it, Khadgar thought, and followed his general into the fray.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ner'zhul sat upon his throne in Hellfire Citadel, the brooding, nightmarish fortress the Horde had built shortly after the clans united. He loathed this place.

It was hideous, a disturbing, disjointed creation of jagged angles, dark stone, and corridors and walkways that twined in and over one another like a maddened snake. If it bore any resemblance to a traditional orс vil­lage, which was a collection of small buildings, huts, and short towers, it was only the most twisted distor­tion of such a wholesome thing, much as the orсs themselves had become twisted and distorted. Whereas orс huts were fabricated from green branches and cov­ered in bark, these buildings were dark stone banded with rough iron. Strange support pillars rose around them, topped with gleaming steel spikes, as if colossal clawed hands were erupting from the cracked ground to grip the structures. The twisting, connecting paths extended from one roof to the next, more as if the buildings had melted and shifted than as if the paths were intentional. At the back rose a taller tower with a peaked roof. It was here that they had shaped a throne room for Blackhand, the Shadow Council giving a pup­pet ruler a pretend throne. Now that throne belonged to Ner'zhul, the new Horde leader in truth, and the rest of the abomination that was the stronghold with it.

Ner'zhul did not glance out through the arching windows toward the portal. He had no desire to be struck, again, by how desolate his once-fertile world had become. But really, there was no avoiding it, was there? Absently his fingers went to touch the white-painted skull on his face. Death. The death of his world, the death of his people, the death of his own idealism. Blood was on his green, gnarled hands; the blood of so many innocents. The blood of orсs who had trusted him, whom he had inadvertently led astray.

You must stop thinking of it that way, came a voice in­side his head. He ignored it. It was easier to ignore the voice of the dead Gul'dan when he was not in physical contact with the skull. Yet even as he vowed not to give it heed, he cast a glance at it now as it sat on a small table. Torchlight danced off the yellowing bone. He found himself speaking to it, as if Gul'dan could hear him. Which, in a way, was true.

“We did much harm, you and I. Deathbringers, doom callers, both of us. But now we can try to save them. And your skull, my old apprentice… your skull will be part of that. Dead you are better use to the orcs than you were alive. Back you have come, to your old master. Maybe together we can give them a new chance."

But that's not what you really want, is it, my master?

Ner'zhul blinked. "Of course it is! I have ever sought to aid my people! That I have become death to them … it sears me. It is why I wear this." He touched the paint on his face yet again. Skulls: the one before him, the one he adorned his face with. Death's heads.

Perhaps it once was, and Guldan's voice crept into his mind, soft, soothing. But you are greater than that, mighty Ner'zhul. Together, we can —

A scuffling sound drew his attention, and Ner'zhul reluctantly tore his gaze from the skull, leaving the lat­est debate with its owner unfinished. Gorefiend stood before him, along with a human Ner'zhul did not rec­ognize, a tall, slender man with dark curls and a neat beard. The stranger wore sumptuous clothing and moved with the manner of a leader, all grace and confi­dence. There was something about him that did not ring true, and Ner'zhul frowned, sensing the power around the stranger.