Perhaps feeling Khadgar's gaze, Turalyon looked up. Their eyes met for a moment, and Turalyon smiled that calm, gentle smile that Khadgar associated with the paladin. Alleria glanced at the archmage as well, and nodded her head, the bright gold dimmed with dust and matted here and there with blood. Kurdran, still hovering on Sky'ree, raised a hammer in salute.

And so it would end. Khadgar had always suspected they wouldn't survive this, but he was fiercely grateful they'd been able to close the portal and save their world. And he was equally grateful that if they had to die — which, he mused wryly, all men did — it would be here, together, fighting side by side as they always had.

A faint glimmer caught his eye.

He blinked. No, it was there — a ripple in the fabric of space and time. Another rift.

Another world. One that, perhaps, wasn't shudder­ing in its death throes.

"There!" he yelled as loudly as he could, pointing at the rift. "We go through there! It's the only chance we've got!"

Turalyon and Alleria looked at one another. Khadgar couldn't hear what they said over the deafening noises of a world shaking itself to pieces, but he saw them hold each other for a moment before, hands joined, they turned to the rift.

They had all ventured forth through the Dark Portal into Draenor, but at least they'd had a vague idea of what they would find. But this…

Draenor's death throes continued, and Khadgar hit the earth hard. Scrambling to his feet, knees and palms scraped raw, he looked toward the rift. Salvation, or a yet worse fate? He didn't know. None of them knew.

They'd just have to find out… one way or the other.

Khadgar, archmage, old man, youth, swallowed hard, steeled himself, and ran through.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"Push on, Horde warriors! We are not far!"

Grom Hellscream's voice cut through the din, heartening those who heard it. Rexxar spun, the battle-axe in his left hand shearing through an Alliance warrior's neck and the matching axe in his right slicing down to split another warrior from shoulder to waist. Beside him his wolf Haratha snarled and lunged in, his massive jaws snapping shut upon a third warrior's fore­arm. Rexxar heard the distinctive crunch of teeth splin­tering bone and the man cried out, the sword falling from his hand. Haratha released the mangled arm and, in a lightning-fast move, sprang and crunched the man's throat in his jaws. They made a lethal team.

Off to one side Rexxar could see Grom Hellscream, chieftain of the Warsong, Gorehowl shrieking and slic­ing through foes. Other Warsong warriors fought be­side their leader, their chants and battle cries blending together into an eerie melody of death and destruction. Rexxar was one of the few left who wasn't from that clan, but that was not unusual for him. He didn't really have a clan. At least, not one involved in the Horde. His own people, the mok'nathal, had always been stub­bornly independent. Small in number, their lives had been difficult and focused on maintaining their tradi­tional land in the Blade's Edge Mountains, defending it against the ogres who sought to claim it. Rexxar had tried to tell his father, Leoroxx, about the Dark Portal the orcs were building; about the chance to find a fresh new world for the beleaguered mok'nathal. But Leoroxx saw only that his son was not staying where he had been born, to fight to protect his homeland. Both had the goal of helping their people; but in the end, Rexxar had followed the Horde, and been disowned for his choice. Now, it was the only family he had.

But then, he'd always been different.

Another human went down. Rexxar glanced up, his height allowing him to see over the other warriors. Grom was right — they were not far from the Dark Por­tal. Perhaps a hundred humans stood between him and his homeworld. Rexxar grinned and raised both axes. He was about to thin that number considerably.

Over the last few months, the fortunes of war had swung back and forth. The Alliance had penned them in a small valley adjoining this one for a short time, but could not hold the Horde there for long. The human warriors had underestimated the will and ferocity of the cornered orcs, and Grom had led his people to freedom. They had regrouped in a place to the north called Stonard. It had been the first outpost the Horde had created when they had come through the Dark Portal originally. The swamp, though fetid and unpleasant, held life and water, and Grom had refused to let the orcs fall into despair. They had built up Stonard, aug­mented it with raids on Alliance supplies, and had even­tually regained control of the portal.

Back and forth the Horde and Alliance had gone. But now, the little game was at an end. Grom had de­cided that it was time to return. No other clans had come to aid them, and while they were still a fighting force to be reckoned with — as the Alliance was discov­ering now — their numbers were slowly dwindling, while the Alliance seemed to breed more by the minute. Too, there was the matter of that strange device — the one the warlocks had tried to activate. They had told Grom that it would create a shield to protect them from attack and make it easier to defend the Dark Portal. But the thing had been designed to destroy, not to protect. Someone was ready to abandon them here — and Grom Hellscream would not let his people die because of another's treachery. Rexxar wanted to be around when Grom returned and con­fronted the one who had issued the order.

A human charged him on horseback, sword raised high and shield set before him, but the soldier hadn't counted on Rexxar's height. Rexxar struck the shield a heavy blow with one axe, smashing it into the man, while knocking the sword away with the other. As the rider was jolted from his saddle, Rexxar brought both axes up and let the man's own momentum impale him on the blades. He grinned and let loose a fierce war cry as he yanked the axes free and stepped over the dead soldier, the riderless horse turning and fleeing Haratha's snapping jaws.

Sometimes it was good to be half ogre.

Something flickered at the corner of his vision, from inside the Dark Portal. He had only seen it for a sec­ond, but he'd gotten a clear impression of lightning, rolling dust clouds, lashing waves, and shifting ground. Always before the portal had shown the other side, so he had been able to catch glimpses of Draenor during the fight. But what he'd just seen — that was not his homeworld. It was a place of nightmare.

Another Alliance soldier attacked him then, and that brought Rcxxar's mind instantly back to the battle. He dispatched the warrior easily, but a handspan or two away from him another orc was not so lucky. Clad in the robes of a warlock, the orc had the green skin of most Horde members — unlike Rexxar himself, who had not joined the Horde until shortly before they in­vaded Azeroth. There were several warlocks here, some of them quite powerful, but their death magics took time, and things happened quickly in battle.

Two warriors attacked the warlock together, and while the orc had managed to disable one, sending him fleeing in mindless terror, the other had stabbed the warlock through the chest before a nearby Warsong warrior had caved in the human's skull with a shrieking warclub. Now the warlock staggered, one hand pressed to the blossoming bloodstain across his front, his skin already turning pale, sweat breaking out on his brow. Rexxar merely grunted and shook his head. He had little use for warlocks, and this one had clearly not been prepared for combat.

The motion caught the warlock's gaze, and the wounded orc stared at Rexxar, disgust and disdain washing across his features in turn. Then he staggered forward, his other hand palm out.

"You!" the warlock shouted. "Half-breed! You are not true Horde, not a true orc. But you will do. Come here!"