**Author's note**Here I will attempt my personal retelling of Warcraft II: Tides of Darkness. The characters, except those I created, are Blizzard's, as is the setting and the world of the story. I know many may not agree with way I am going to tell this story - it will mostly be told from the human standpoint, although the orcs may have greater and greater parts as the story moves on. And if you have any ideas about characters, battle tactics, settings, cultures and anything of the sort, e-mail me at: [email protected] I would love to have your ideas!!! And please, review this story! Now on with the show!**
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Prologue: Exodus
Winter 587, Exodus Fleet, on The Great Sea
These were grievious times.
So was the common thought that was shared by thousands of people. Tens of thousands, in fact. Women, men, even some children. They were somber, grieving. They had a right to be. After all, they had lost their homeland, Azeroth.
Azeroth had long been, almost since its founding nearly one millenia before, a thriving kingdom. The great Order of the Horse, the Knights of Azeroth and the Clerics of Northshire served the crown and the people well, and made the land a safe and cherished place. Azeroth grew in power and influence, and knew few wars. The last real war, in fact, had been fought against the Dwarves of Khaz Modan in three hundred sixty-seven of the present Sixth Age. It was short-lived, if brutal, and Azeroth had known peace ever since. The people were under the guidance of a good Royal Family, who gave the Nation few tyrants and many benevolent rulers. The last, King Llane, was one of the best and most just of that line, and under his rulership the Kingdom prospered even more. Those were truly golden days for Azeroth.
Alas, it was not to last. Out of the fetid swamps of the Black Morass came the Orcish Hordes, savage green-skinned warriors, both ruthless and fanatic. They came in overwhelming numbers. Althought the first attacks were disorganized, the Horde, as it came to be known, soon mounted brutal yet clever assaults against royal strongholds.
It was a very chilling but undeniable reality that was etched on every person old and wise enought to understand. And on none of the people on the myriad of ships was it etched more fiercely than on the face of the man standing on the upper deck of the lead Azerothian Battleship.The man was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, in dented but obviously plate mail, with a large sword hanging in a leather scabbard at his side. He was by no means young. He was balding, and his hair was white. Many lines, from age, worry and the hardness of battle, criss-crossed his tanned skin, making him look far older than his late fifties.
He was named Anduin Lothar, Regent-Lord of Azeroth and the High General of the Azerothian Army. His face was lined as he reflected on the happenings of the Orc War.
Grand Hamlet, the wealthiest, most prosperous city of the Eastern Counties, had fallen before the muster of the Azerothian armies had fully been raised and armed. This had shocked and horrified the people, especially as the few survivors of the region tell of the genocidal slaying and cremations heaped upon the human populace. It had created a muster of troops that the Kingdom had never seen in any of the wars it had fought.
The first half of five eighty-four had been a cause for hope. Northshire, the Holy City, with its great Abbey and many beautiful shrines, had resisted the Orc onslaught and the human armies, led by Lothar himself, had attacked into Horde territory and destroyed the orcish city of Tor's Lash. It had given them all a very real sense of hope.
Sadly, it was not to last. The Horde was overwhleming in number, magically aided by the insane and extremely powerful human sorceror, Medhiv. They had retaken the lands around Tor's Lash, pushed the human forces out, and, at the end of that year, destroyed Northshire, with only a few of the High Clerics escaping.
It had gone slowly but steadily worse from there, although the armies did all they could to stem the onslaught. Knowing that the Kingdom might very well fall eventually, King Liane had sent a request to King Terenas of Lordaron, set far to the North, to give asylum to the people he would send. Although it must have frightened many, Terenas had agreed, and so the Exodus had begun, slowly at first, then more and more quickly as the great sister towns of Sunshire and Moonbrook fell to the greenskins.
But the orcish tide was too strong to be contained, and eventually the Azerothian lines started to crumble. As the armies of Azeroth progressively lost ground, King Llane ordered to prepare all of the Azerothian ship-be they warships, merchant ships or barques used for fishing, loaded with enought food to survive across the Great Sea. It was to be called the Exodus.
Finally, the lines failed, and the Horde chased the retreating armies up to Stormwind, the Capital. King llane had evacuated nearly one thirs of his people to the Exodus fleet. He ordered the remaining armies to join them, and flee. Many soldiers were inclined to rail against these orders, but the King stood firm, appointing the very reluctant Lothar, Regent-Lord of Azeroth. And so, heavy of heart, shattered, the remaining armies embarked, leaving Stormwind with only the smallest of garrisons. Probing by the remaining clerics of now-destroyed Northshire showed that it was overrun barely three days after the Exodus Fleet had left. The Kingdom of Azeroth had Fallen.
They had lost their homes, their homeland.
Anduin Lothar, born of the powerful Lothar House, had quickly enlisted into the army, for he was skilled with the blade and stout of heart. He ascended the ranks quickly, in no small part due to his natural cunning and great tactics against the bands of brigands that were the plague of Azeroth before the Horde War. He was made a knight at barely twenty-two, a very young age for the time, and joined the King's elite when he was twenty-eight. He served his King and his country as best as he could, using his knowledge to keep enemies at bay.
But even his talents had been unable to stop the Horde from destroying his homeland.
"You call me Regent-Lord, or Hero, or Great Lord, " he stated bleakly to no one in particular. "But what am I? No hero, but a man who failed. Failed his country, his King and his honor." he fell silent at that. He was then pulled out of his reverie by the sound of a much younger voice speaking reverently and openly behind him.
"You sent for us, Lord Lothar?" said the voice.
Lothar turned to see two men. One was a relatively tall fellow, with well-built arms and green eyes shining with strenght under great brown eyebrows and hair. He was also dressed as a knight, with plate mail and a great, black-hilted sword. Varien Wrynn was his name. Young, he was one of the last to have been knighted before the lines failed in the war. Yet he was very bright, a cunning man with a great swordarm.
The other man was the same height, and was also decked in plate mail. However, his plate wasn't as worn as the two other man, and he didn't wera the lion symbol or the crest of the Order of the Horse. His symbols were clerical, and the light of faith shone in the dark-haired man's green eyes. His name was Uther Lightbringer, apprentice to the Archbishop Alonsus Faol of the once great Northshire Abbey. He had fought alongside the clerics in the war, using his powers to heal the far too numerous wounded. As the war dragged on, however, young Uther had taken fighting lessons from his friend Varien, and for the last year he had fought beside the Knights, merging steel and clerical magic. The cestruction of Northshire, his home, had dealt a dire blow to the young man, as the war had dealt to Azeroth.
Lothar faced the two young men and observed them for a moment. And, althought it did not show on his face, he smiled mentally. Old men like him might feel that hope is lost, as would many other, younger men. But if he was certain of one thing, it was that those two men would never lose hope, no matter what happened. These two young lords were among those who, unwittingly, kept him aloft sometimes, when he felt he couldn't go on.
Nothing of this showed in his demeanor, of course. But he knew they were sometimes aware it was there, beneath the surface.
"Yes, Lord Varien. I wanted to talk to you. As you know, we, the last group of the Exodus, will arrive at Hillsbrad tomorrow morning, along with the the army that stayed with us to destroy the shipyards so the Horde wouldn't use it to build ships on their own." Both lords nodded and he continued. "We will rest the winter there, and as soon as the mountain passes are clear I will select a few lords and a contigent of Knights to pay my respect to King Terenas."
"As it should be." said Uther. "After all, King Terenas gave us this land to do with as we please and we owe him."
"Hmm. There's a lot to say about that, my friend." retorted Varien. "The land he gave was largely uninhabited, in Lordaeron's possession in name only. As for owing him, let us remember that they owe us too. We fought and died to stem the flow of the Horde. Not them, WE. We owe them but they owe us, so the balance appears maintained, in my opinion."
"Perhaps, but the nobles and officials of Lordaeron may not see it so." Lothar noted sadly. "They do not know what is happening yet, and why should they? Lordaeron is very far to the North, removed, far removed, from the threat of the Horde. Other Kingdoms, like Kul Tiras or Stromgarde, would believe us far sooner. However, it is Lorderon, before anyone else, which we must convince."
He didn't have to explain why. Although Kultiras, Stromgarde and the other human realms were established places with military forces, they paled even next to what remained of Azeroth's. Only Lordaeron had ever been near their lands, and right now they were the only ones left who could truly help in stopping the Horde.
"You know of my plan, to put forth together our armies and those of Lordaeron. For that, we need to convince them." the old knight told his young aides and friends.
"And what if they refuse to be convinced?" Uther ventured politely.
To that Lothar made no answer, nor did he truly need to.
* * * * * * * * * *
The ship swayed slightly, much to Aerth Swiftblade's discomfort. His plate mail clanked a bit as he stumbled, fighting down the nausea which was threatening him, passing an array of civilians and soldiers, male and female and children, some of which had the same greenish outlook he supposed he did. He had never been a sea person.
Born to middle-class merchants in the city of Sunshire, Aerth had never wanted to be anything but a respected Knight of Azeroth. He used to pester those plated warriors with questions, and had finally enlisted into the army as a footman at the age of sixteen, and had been posted at Grand Hamlet. He had been there for nine months of his alloted year of posting, when the orcs had started to raid. Small raids at first, and they had fought those off easily. But it had been frightening, fighting these green beastmen whom no tales talked of.
And he had been there during the Battle of Grand Hamlet, where nearly ten thousand troops fought and only a bare thousand survived. He had been one of those thousands, and during that battle had saved the life of an elderr knight, who made him his squire. It had been the highlight of that year, amidst the terror and the grimness all around. It had been through three more years of hard work that he'd been sworn a Knight, stationed back at his home city, which was standing closer and closer to the waves of Orcs. There, he had met his second highlight, and the greatest in his life.
He smiled sadly as he spotted the black-haired, feminine form wrapped in a cloak, oblivious to what was around her. Eira Fregar, last child of the influent House Fregar of Sunshire was her name, and none sounded sweeter to his ears. That they had fallen in love during his stay in Sunshire had been a surprise her father had not altogether approved, and at been alarmed with at first. But when he had asked for her hand he had consented, probably because he felt a knight would protect his daughter better.
They had rarely seen each other during the last years of the war, but she had insisted to wait for him before going on the Exodus, and had been with him on the same boat. And although he had grumbled at her for putting herself at risk, he had felt good to see her there, beside him.
It was with this frame of thought that the young knight flopped down noisily beside the figure, who raised her head in surprise, revealing fair, soft features and kind brown eyes. She smiled as she reognized him.
"My love." she said, never calling him milord or beloved - not that he'd care for the formality, for those two words from her buoyed him more than words could tell. "How are the other Knights?"
"Restless, sick, angry and more than ready to swim back to Azeroth to fight the Horde this instant." he said with a tired smile "But for me I'll wait until we have arrived, and are at our home in Taren Mill, before thinking of fighting." Only when I know you are safe, will I be able to fight. he thought, but refused to say it aloud. In private, he would, but in public, he knew he couldn't show his feelings too much.
Not that she didn't see through him, of course, as she smiled at him and leaned against him, he wrapping his plated and mailed arm around her instinctively, trying to phase out the swayings of the great ship. For a moment they were silent, as were most of the other passengers on the ship, looking at the darkening sky and the gentle waters of the Great Sea.
At last she spoke. "It will be alright, now. In Lordaeron it will be alright." she said with certainty. He only looked at her and hugged her a little tighter. He had been in battle. He knew more than most that things would not be alright for a very long time.
But he would die before he crushed his young, beloved wife's optimism. For he needed it. One of them, at least, had to see the light ahead in the future.
****
Prologue: Exodus
Winter 587, Exodus Fleet, on The Great Sea
These were grievious times.
So was the common thought that was shared by thousands of people. Tens of thousands, in fact. Women, men, even some children. They were somber, grieving. They had a right to be. After all, they had lost their homeland, Azeroth.
Azeroth had long been, almost since its founding nearly one millenia before, a thriving kingdom. The great Order of the Horse, the Knights of Azeroth and the Clerics of Northshire served the crown and the people well, and made the land a safe and cherished place. Azeroth grew in power and influence, and knew few wars. The last real war, in fact, had been fought against the Dwarves of Khaz Modan in three hundred sixty-seven of the present Sixth Age. It was short-lived, if brutal, and Azeroth had known peace ever since. The people were under the guidance of a good Royal Family, who gave the Nation few tyrants and many benevolent rulers. The last, King Llane, was one of the best and most just of that line, and under his rulership the Kingdom prospered even more. Those were truly golden days for Azeroth.
Alas, it was not to last. Out of the fetid swamps of the Black Morass came the Orcish Hordes, savage green-skinned warriors, both ruthless and fanatic. They came in overwhelming numbers. Althought the first attacks were disorganized, the Horde, as it came to be known, soon mounted brutal yet clever assaults against royal strongholds.
It was a very chilling but undeniable reality that was etched on every person old and wise enought to understand. And on none of the people on the myriad of ships was it etched more fiercely than on the face of the man standing on the upper deck of the lead Azerothian Battleship.The man was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, in dented but obviously plate mail, with a large sword hanging in a leather scabbard at his side. He was by no means young. He was balding, and his hair was white. Many lines, from age, worry and the hardness of battle, criss-crossed his tanned skin, making him look far older than his late fifties.
He was named Anduin Lothar, Regent-Lord of Azeroth and the High General of the Azerothian Army. His face was lined as he reflected on the happenings of the Orc War.
Grand Hamlet, the wealthiest, most prosperous city of the Eastern Counties, had fallen before the muster of the Azerothian armies had fully been raised and armed. This had shocked and horrified the people, especially as the few survivors of the region tell of the genocidal slaying and cremations heaped upon the human populace. It had created a muster of troops that the Kingdom had never seen in any of the wars it had fought.
The first half of five eighty-four had been a cause for hope. Northshire, the Holy City, with its great Abbey and many beautiful shrines, had resisted the Orc onslaught and the human armies, led by Lothar himself, had attacked into Horde territory and destroyed the orcish city of Tor's Lash. It had given them all a very real sense of hope.
Sadly, it was not to last. The Horde was overwhleming in number, magically aided by the insane and extremely powerful human sorceror, Medhiv. They had retaken the lands around Tor's Lash, pushed the human forces out, and, at the end of that year, destroyed Northshire, with only a few of the High Clerics escaping.
It had gone slowly but steadily worse from there, although the armies did all they could to stem the onslaught. Knowing that the Kingdom might very well fall eventually, King Liane had sent a request to King Terenas of Lordaron, set far to the North, to give asylum to the people he would send. Although it must have frightened many, Terenas had agreed, and so the Exodus had begun, slowly at first, then more and more quickly as the great sister towns of Sunshire and Moonbrook fell to the greenskins.
But the orcish tide was too strong to be contained, and eventually the Azerothian lines started to crumble. As the armies of Azeroth progressively lost ground, King Llane ordered to prepare all of the Azerothian ship-be they warships, merchant ships or barques used for fishing, loaded with enought food to survive across the Great Sea. It was to be called the Exodus.
Finally, the lines failed, and the Horde chased the retreating armies up to Stormwind, the Capital. King llane had evacuated nearly one thirs of his people to the Exodus fleet. He ordered the remaining armies to join them, and flee. Many soldiers were inclined to rail against these orders, but the King stood firm, appointing the very reluctant Lothar, Regent-Lord of Azeroth. And so, heavy of heart, shattered, the remaining armies embarked, leaving Stormwind with only the smallest of garrisons. Probing by the remaining clerics of now-destroyed Northshire showed that it was overrun barely three days after the Exodus Fleet had left. The Kingdom of Azeroth had Fallen.
They had lost their homes, their homeland.
Anduin Lothar, born of the powerful Lothar House, had quickly enlisted into the army, for he was skilled with the blade and stout of heart. He ascended the ranks quickly, in no small part due to his natural cunning and great tactics against the bands of brigands that were the plague of Azeroth before the Horde War. He was made a knight at barely twenty-two, a very young age for the time, and joined the King's elite when he was twenty-eight. He served his King and his country as best as he could, using his knowledge to keep enemies at bay.
But even his talents had been unable to stop the Horde from destroying his homeland.
"You call me Regent-Lord, or Hero, or Great Lord, " he stated bleakly to no one in particular. "But what am I? No hero, but a man who failed. Failed his country, his King and his honor." he fell silent at that. He was then pulled out of his reverie by the sound of a much younger voice speaking reverently and openly behind him.
"You sent for us, Lord Lothar?" said the voice.
Lothar turned to see two men. One was a relatively tall fellow, with well-built arms and green eyes shining with strenght under great brown eyebrows and hair. He was also dressed as a knight, with plate mail and a great, black-hilted sword. Varien Wrynn was his name. Young, he was one of the last to have been knighted before the lines failed in the war. Yet he was very bright, a cunning man with a great swordarm.
The other man was the same height, and was also decked in plate mail. However, his plate wasn't as worn as the two other man, and he didn't wera the lion symbol or the crest of the Order of the Horse. His symbols were clerical, and the light of faith shone in the dark-haired man's green eyes. His name was Uther Lightbringer, apprentice to the Archbishop Alonsus Faol of the once great Northshire Abbey. He had fought alongside the clerics in the war, using his powers to heal the far too numerous wounded. As the war dragged on, however, young Uther had taken fighting lessons from his friend Varien, and for the last year he had fought beside the Knights, merging steel and clerical magic. The cestruction of Northshire, his home, had dealt a dire blow to the young man, as the war had dealt to Azeroth.
Lothar faced the two young men and observed them for a moment. And, althought it did not show on his face, he smiled mentally. Old men like him might feel that hope is lost, as would many other, younger men. But if he was certain of one thing, it was that those two men would never lose hope, no matter what happened. These two young lords were among those who, unwittingly, kept him aloft sometimes, when he felt he couldn't go on.
Nothing of this showed in his demeanor, of course. But he knew they were sometimes aware it was there, beneath the surface.
"Yes, Lord Varien. I wanted to talk to you. As you know, we, the last group of the Exodus, will arrive at Hillsbrad tomorrow morning, along with the the army that stayed with us to destroy the shipyards so the Horde wouldn't use it to build ships on their own." Both lords nodded and he continued. "We will rest the winter there, and as soon as the mountain passes are clear I will select a few lords and a contigent of Knights to pay my respect to King Terenas."
"As it should be." said Uther. "After all, King Terenas gave us this land to do with as we please and we owe him."
"Hmm. There's a lot to say about that, my friend." retorted Varien. "The land he gave was largely uninhabited, in Lordaeron's possession in name only. As for owing him, let us remember that they owe us too. We fought and died to stem the flow of the Horde. Not them, WE. We owe them but they owe us, so the balance appears maintained, in my opinion."
"Perhaps, but the nobles and officials of Lordaeron may not see it so." Lothar noted sadly. "They do not know what is happening yet, and why should they? Lordaeron is very far to the North, removed, far removed, from the threat of the Horde. Other Kingdoms, like Kul Tiras or Stromgarde, would believe us far sooner. However, it is Lorderon, before anyone else, which we must convince."
He didn't have to explain why. Although Kultiras, Stromgarde and the other human realms were established places with military forces, they paled even next to what remained of Azeroth's. Only Lordaeron had ever been near their lands, and right now they were the only ones left who could truly help in stopping the Horde.
"You know of my plan, to put forth together our armies and those of Lordaeron. For that, we need to convince them." the old knight told his young aides and friends.
"And what if they refuse to be convinced?" Uther ventured politely.
To that Lothar made no answer, nor did he truly need to.
* * * * * * * * * *
The ship swayed slightly, much to Aerth Swiftblade's discomfort. His plate mail clanked a bit as he stumbled, fighting down the nausea which was threatening him, passing an array of civilians and soldiers, male and female and children, some of which had the same greenish outlook he supposed he did. He had never been a sea person.
Born to middle-class merchants in the city of Sunshire, Aerth had never wanted to be anything but a respected Knight of Azeroth. He used to pester those plated warriors with questions, and had finally enlisted into the army as a footman at the age of sixteen, and had been posted at Grand Hamlet. He had been there for nine months of his alloted year of posting, when the orcs had started to raid. Small raids at first, and they had fought those off easily. But it had been frightening, fighting these green beastmen whom no tales talked of.
And he had been there during the Battle of Grand Hamlet, where nearly ten thousand troops fought and only a bare thousand survived. He had been one of those thousands, and during that battle had saved the life of an elderr knight, who made him his squire. It had been the highlight of that year, amidst the terror and the grimness all around. It had been through three more years of hard work that he'd been sworn a Knight, stationed back at his home city, which was standing closer and closer to the waves of Orcs. There, he had met his second highlight, and the greatest in his life.
He smiled sadly as he spotted the black-haired, feminine form wrapped in a cloak, oblivious to what was around her. Eira Fregar, last child of the influent House Fregar of Sunshire was her name, and none sounded sweeter to his ears. That they had fallen in love during his stay in Sunshire had been a surprise her father had not altogether approved, and at been alarmed with at first. But when he had asked for her hand he had consented, probably because he felt a knight would protect his daughter better.
They had rarely seen each other during the last years of the war, but she had insisted to wait for him before going on the Exodus, and had been with him on the same boat. And although he had grumbled at her for putting herself at risk, he had felt good to see her there, beside him.
It was with this frame of thought that the young knight flopped down noisily beside the figure, who raised her head in surprise, revealing fair, soft features and kind brown eyes. She smiled as she reognized him.
"My love." she said, never calling him milord or beloved - not that he'd care for the formality, for those two words from her buoyed him more than words could tell. "How are the other Knights?"
"Restless, sick, angry and more than ready to swim back to Azeroth to fight the Horde this instant." he said with a tired smile "But for me I'll wait until we have arrived, and are at our home in Taren Mill, before thinking of fighting." Only when I know you are safe, will I be able to fight. he thought, but refused to say it aloud. In private, he would, but in public, he knew he couldn't show his feelings too much.
Not that she didn't see through him, of course, as she smiled at him and leaned against him, he wrapping his plated and mailed arm around her instinctively, trying to phase out the swayings of the great ship. For a moment they were silent, as were most of the other passengers on the ship, looking at the darkening sky and the gentle waters of the Great Sea.
At last she spoke. "It will be alright, now. In Lordaeron it will be alright." she said with certainty. He only looked at her and hugged her a little tighter. He had been in battle. He knew more than most that things would not be alright for a very long time.
But he would die before he crushed his young, beloved wife's optimism. For he needed it. One of them, at least, had to see the light ahead in the future.