AN (11/12/08): This story is an old one, and by old I mean "hasn't been touched for over a year now." You'll find a few things to be odd, mainly because I started writing this well before any of the WotLK stuff was announced, before the Sunwell Plateau, etc. It was actually decently close to completion, but it's so terrible that I think I'll just let it die.

Seriously. It's that bad.

Chapter One: The Calm

"It's the deep breath before the plunge." – Gandalf the White

Telredor, Zangarmarsh – 31 years after the Dark Portal first opened

"You can't be serious!" Anchorite Ahuum stood as he spoke, shocked by the words of the Broken who sat across the table from him.

The face of Kurenai representative Ikuti remained impassive, though it was difficult to tell such things. Over the past 50 years, the demonic energies that permeated Outland had poisoned the Broken, twisting them into pale shadows of the proud Draenei they once were. Ahuum, however, had long since learned that while the Broken might appear hideous, they were still Draenei. Recent events, however, were beginning to call that into question.

"I am sorry, my friend, but these are desperate times." The aging shaman motioned to the map that lay spread out on the table between them. "With fresh troops and supplies pouring through the Dark Portal from Azeroth, the Mag'har have grown bold. Even with the aid of your Vindicators and Anchorites, we are slowly being pushed back. Soon Telaar itself will fall to the orcs and the Kurenai will be no more."

The Anchorite shook his head in frustration. "All this I know, but why him? The Nether-cursed cannot be trusted! How can Arechron justify so drastic a measure?"

Ikuti stood up and put his large, deformed hands on the table, meeting Ahuum's gaze with his own. "Markov is a skilled tactician and warrior with friends in places both high and low. He offered us his services and at this point we would be fools to decline."

His tone was cold, very much unbecoming the warm, welcoming sage that Ahuum had come to know, and he bore more resemblance to a cornered beast than a Draenei. The younger, uncorrupted Draenei had never seen this side of his friend, though he surmised that such an iron will had served the Broken well in this shattered realm.

"That may be true, but he still represents everything the Kurenai must not be if they have any hope of ever becoming part of Draenei society! He is as ruthless and bloodthirsty as any demon!"

Silence followed in the wake of his outburst, as Ikuti was both unable and unwilling to counter what they both knew to be true. Ahuum sighed and sat back down, collecting himself before speaking again.

"All I am saying is that this will… complicate relations between our people. Markov's vicious methods and open disdain for the Light are well known, and our more puritanical warriors will object to fighting alongside someone who wields as unholy a weapon as Voidwrath. Cooperation will be difficult with him in command of the Kurenai forces."

The shaman remained standing, looking down into his friend's eyes. "As I said, these are desperate times and the Kurenai have long since learned that if we wish to survive in this cursed land then we must be willing to make compromises with our own morality. There is no other way. Arechron knows what he is doing and though Markov may not be interested in the well being of the Kurenai, he can be trusted to fight the orcs. Of this we are certain."

Ahuum slowly shook his tentacled head. "This is a slippery slope, my friend."

With equal solemnity, Ikuti sat and turned his gaze away from him. "I know."

For a time neither spoke, and Ahuum wondered where this path would lead the Kurenai. Would Markov, one of the most despised of all Broken, lead the Kurenai to victory, or would he simply condemn them to rot for the rest of their days, as he had himself?

It was Ikuti who broke the silence. "I have been recalled."

The Anchorite looked up at him, startled. "What?"

"The Kurenai are abandoning Orebor Harborage. Markov's orders. Most of the others have already begun the journey. I came here to tell you, but now I must also be on my way. Future discussions will be conducted in Shattrath." Ikuti spoke with a quiet resignation, as if he found the order distasteful.

Ahuum was puzzled, and his confusion seeped into his voice. "But you yourself said that the road between Telaar and Shattrath was dangerous, that it was infested with Boulderfist Ogres and Lost Ones. That is why we had to use the Harborage in the first place."

Ikuti stood up and began walking toward the door. "Markov has assured us that he has a plan in place to deal with that." As he reached the doorway the Broken sage turned toward Ahuum. "In any case, I hope to see you again soon, my friend."

The latter stood and bowed to him. "As do I. May your days be long and your hardships few."

The shaman glumly nodded to his friend. "And yours." With those words Ikuti turned and departed, leaving the Draenei alone with his thoughts.

He sank back down into his chair and let his eyelids slide shut. When he spoke, it was to no one save posterity. "Nothing good can come of this."

Garadar, Nagrand

"You're getting slow, old man!"

Khazar simply chuckled in response and swung again, this time for Lorkhan's legs. He easily blocked the strike and countered, swinging the wooden training sword with all his might. The aging orc parried the attack, letting it slide harmlessly off to the side, and in a single, blindingly fast motion moved inside his pupil's reach and backhanded him in the face. As the young orc staggered back, his elder brought the training sword around and struck the back of his knees. He cried out in pain as his legs crumpled underneath him and he unceremoniously collapsed.

The older orc looked down triumphantly at the upstart warrior and flashed a wide, toothy grin. It was rare for an orc in Khazar's line of work to live as long as he had, let alone keep all of his teeth.

"Too slow, am I? You're one to talk. When you started that last swing I could have run off, lived another seventy years, come back and you still wouldn't have finished it!"

"One of these days Khazar…" Lorkhan struggled to regain his breath and silently marveled at the fact that his mentor had the lungpower to spout his usual taunts even after sparring. "One of these days I'm going to beat you."

A deep, resounding laugh echoed across the training ground in response. When Khazar managed to stifle his guffawing, he smiled. "You've been saying that for the last twenty years boy, since you could first talk. It hasn't happened yet and it certainly isn't going to if you keep fighting like that."

He offered his hand to Lorkhan, who accepted it and was hauled back to his feet. The two orcs stepped out of the training ring and walked along one of the winding dirt roads that crisscrossed Garadar. The roads had become increasingly crowded as of late, as fresh troops from the world of Azeroth arrived in Garadar on a daily basis. The young orc had never seen the far-off world, having lived amongst the Mag'har all his life, though the newcomers had told him strange accounts of the place.

Azeroth, the land of the humans, had always been like a fairytale world to Lorkhan. When he was growing up he would often hear stories of the wretched humans who had poured through the portal more than twenty years ago and brought war to the plains and seas of Draenor. Over twenty years since the sundering of the world and the ensuing carnage that claimed the lives of his parents. An infant in the shattered realm of Outland, Lorkhan would have perished had a wanderer named Khazar not found him. Seeing the old orc's grizzled face, balding head, and scraggly grey beard was one of his first, concrete memories.

Ever since then the other Mag'har had constantly reminded him that he was lucky that the eccentric old coot had been the one to find him. The young warrior was a Morg'al, a runt, and was smaller and wirier than most orcs. There was no doubt in his mind that if anyone but Khazar had found him he would have been left to rot.

Morale at Garadar was high, with new troops to bolster the defenses and enough supplies to keep them fed for years to come the Mag'har felt secure for the first time in decades. Rumors were even going around that their recent victory at Halaa was only the first of many and that the hated Draenei would soon be wiped out once and for all. He only hoped that the war didn't end before he had a chance to fight.

A light punch to the shoulder from Khazar jarred him from his thoughts. "Hey, boy, don't start daydreaming on me now, I've got something important to tell you."

The younger orc raised one of his ebon eyebrows. "What would that be?"

He could see that his mentor was trying to conceal a smile but was failing miserably. Khazar had never been able to remain serious for any length of time, despite the brutal nature of living in Outland, and it had made beating a little discipline into his pupil difficult. "Jorin Deadeye has instructed me to put together a battalion of fresh troops and march south to tighten the noose around Telaar." He placed a calloused hand on the smaller orc's shoulder. "I want you with me on this one."

For a moment Lorkhan could do nothing but stare at the ancient warrior in shock. He only tried to collect himself after Khazar began to laugh again and he realized that the expression on his face was probably the most amusing thing the old orc had seen in a long time. "Thank you, sir. I… I don't know what to say." He tried to remain as serious as possible, though it was difficult for him to contain his excitement.

The grizzled warrior's laughter faded into chuckling and eventually petered off completely. "Well, 'yes' would be a good start. Other than that you really don't have to say anything. I have to get the rest of the battalion together, but we will be meeting for a full briefing out in front of the east longhouse an hour after dusk." He smirked. "Until then, try not to embarrass yourself too much, boy."

Lorkhan bowed, trying to remain collected. Khazar's smirk relaxed into a more benign smile and he returned his bow before walking off down the road. The young warrior lasted about five seconds before he ran off cheering and cackling like a madman.

The hours passed swiftly, though for the young orc the coming battle still could not arrive quickly enough. The sun crept though the sky, as if trying to torture the eager warrior, until it finally settled below the horizon. The courtyard outside the eastern longhouse was filled with some of the largest, toughest looking orcs that Lorkhan had ever seen.

As he scanned the crowd an unusual sight caught his eye. Towering above the heads of the assembled orcs about fifty feet from him stood a massive tauren garbed in mail armor with a shield slung over his back and a viciously flanged mace hooked to his belt. His hide was a deep shade of brown, bordering on black, and from his head sprouted a pair of steel gray horns which curved forward before coming to a point. That was not, however, what struck Lorkhan as unusual. On one of the tauren's shoulders sat a Blood Elf woman in lightweight leather armor with hair that was only slightly lighter than that of the tauren's. On her back she wore a quiver and a bow that was as tall as she was and from her belt hung a pair of curved shortswords.

Lorkhan's gaze drifted off before it finally centered on Khazar. He stood on an elevated platform at the front of the crowd.

"Alright you maggots and peons, listen up. You have all been chosen for your skill and determination in battle, and the one ahead is likely to test both. As you all know, the Kurenai to the south have been a thorn in our side for some time." The wizened orc grinned. "After our victory at Halaa, Jorin Deadeye has decided to give us the honor of wiping them out for good."

A chorus of cheers rippled through the crowd, though Khazar quickly silenced it with a wave of one of his calloused hand.

"At first light tomorrow morning we will march south to the crossroads beyond the Ring of Trials. There, we will make camp, and await orders to move on Telaar itself. We have scouts positioned between the site and Telaar, so we will have some warning if the vermin decide to try anything stupid. Get your gear together and be at the east gate before dawn. Dismissed!"

Night descended on Garadar and a surreal calm took the place of spirited activity. For the first time in decades the Mag'har slept soundly.

All save one.

Lorkhan couldn't sleep. No matter how hard he tried he just couldn't bring himself to lie still, not with his first battle just around the corner, and instead wandered the quiet roads of Garadar. The largest of Draenor's moons was only a thin curve in the sky, and would likely vanish completely by the next night. However, his eyes could make out, silhouetted against what remained of the moon, a shape sitting on one of the hills looking out across the land to the west of Garadar.

He slowly, almost unconsciously, began wandering toward the figure and as he approached it he discovered it was the tauren from earlier, sitting alone and smoking a large pipe. The young orc began walking toward him, wondering why he would be awake at this hour, but then saw the elf that had also been at the briefing silently walk up and sit down next to the massive bull. Lorkhan could not help but be curious as to who the two were and why they were there, but eventually decided that eavesdropping would be rude. He turned and meandered back to the barracks to try and get some sleep.

For a long time after Lorkhan had left, neither figure spoke. Eventually, the Blood Elf reached out and put her hand on the tauren's shoulder.

"Obereth?"

The tauren turned around, startled, but smiled when he saw the elf. "Oh, hello Rhana. I didn't hear you coming."

The elf smiled back. "You know, they never do." Rhana's smile slowly evaporated, leaving an expression of concern in its place. "Obereth, are you all right?"

The sides of his mouth slowly curled upward and he nodded his enormous head. "I'm fine it's just…" His voice trailed off, leaving his friend hanging.

"It's just what?"

Obereth's smile faded and turned back towards the sliver of the moon that remained. When he spoke again it was with an unnerving amount of trepidation for the wise old shaman.

"It's just I can't shake the feeling that something terrible is lying just around the corner."

Somewhere south of Garadar, Nagrand – The next morning

The column moved quickly down the road from Garadar and though the sun beat down relentlessly the Land of Winds was well named and the breeze kept the heat from becoming oppressive. Lorkhan, though no longer as excited as he had been the day before, was still eager and marched with to any career soldier would have seemed to be an excessive amount of spring in his step.

Obereth was curious about the young orc in front of him who seemed to march with such pride that he practically bounced with every step. The aging tauren chucked, causing Lorkhan to turn around, slightly puzzled.

"What?"

He tried and failed to wipe the smile off his face. "It's nothing, you just remind me of this time in Dustwallow when–"

Rhana, who walked along at his side, immediately and rather harshly cut him off. "No, Obereth. You are not telling him about that." The expression on her face was one of stern determination, though it was distinctly tainted by embarrassment.

He laughed again, amused by the elf's seriousness. "Oh come now, it's a good story."

Lorkhan was more than a little confused by the words of the two, though his curiosity overrode his bewilderment. "What happened?"

"You see?" The shaman idly waved an enormous brown hand in the orc's direction. "He wants to hear the rest and it would be terribly rude of me just to leave him hanging."

The elf's glowing green eyes shot Lorkhan an accusing glare before they swiveled back toward Obereth. "Well, if you're so concerned about being rude, you could at least have the decency to introduce yourself to him."

"Oh, forgive me." The tauren bowed his head to Lorkhan as they walked. "I am Obereth Steelhorns, Shaman of the Earthen Ring." He motioned to the indignant looking elf who merely nodded her head. "And this is Rhana Taltherion, Ranger of Silvermoon."

The orc nodded in return. "I am Lorkhan of the Mag'har." He fell into line alongside the massive shaman and looked up at him. "Now, as you were saying…"

Clan Watch, Nagrand – That evening

"So after we mopped the floor with the cult leader, we took a look around the room. The big stone doors on the far side were locked and there were these four braziers around the statue where the cultist was."

Obereth, who sat next to Rhana, groaned as the story went on, remembering what happened next.

She kept going, however, and her smile grew wider and wider as she told the story. "So Obereth thinks for a moment and decides 'hey, why don't we light all the braziers at once!' No sooner had we done that than the room was filled with crabs, makrura, these crazy snapping turtles, you name it. If a walking, talking kitchen sink had attacked us, I don't think I would have been very surprised."

Lorkhan and Rhana shared a laugh, though Obereth only to lightly chuckle, as if still a little embarrassed about the event.

The young orc leaned forward, looking expectantly across the campfire at the elf and tauren. "So? What happened next?"

The shaman opened his mouth, about to respond, but Rhana beat him to the punch. "Well I dropped to the ground immediately and played possum." She shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "I'm pretty good at it too. Obereth here, though, he started pummeling them with that mace of his and after a good five minutes of bashing, he's up to his neck in bodies." She turned to face him with a sly smile. "If memory serves you had to skewer the last one with those overgrown pokers."

The tauren grinned and shrugged as Rhana rapped her knuckles against one of his massive horns. "Hey, they don't call me 'Steelhorns' because I don't have horns of steel." The trio chuckled and, as the night wore on, shared many more stories and jokes.

After some time they were approached by Khazar, who bowed to them. "Alright Lorkhan, Obereth, Rhana, your watch is up. Go get some sleep, I'll take over from here." The three, still smiling, rose and bowed to him before departing to their tents.

Unbeknownst to them, a pair of eyes alight with chilling flame watched them as they went. Their owner, a figure draped in shadows that it wore with the same familiarity that one might wear a favorite hat, sat staring at them from the edge of the camp and now slid closer to the tents were the battalion's warriors slept. Soon it was joined by many more, each skillfully maneuvering its way through the camp, closing in on their unsuspecting prey.