World of Warcraft®

Jonathan flexed and tensed his muscles as he stood back, his grandfather's hand resting gently on his arm. The massive form of Lukaran Harmarth of the Ebon Blade stood by. "I should be up there. Let me go." Jon growled.

Lukaran sighed. "You're exhausted, Jonathan. You've been fighting all day; take a rest at least for a few minutes. Besides, your great grandfather's on his way, he'll be here soon, and then we'll go in together."

Jon let out a deep breath and fell to one knee. He knew his grandfather was right. But he was far from alone here; countless soldiers, fighters, and heroes were here to hold back the Iron Tide flowing from the Dark Portal. The thought that these Orcs were, whether they realized it or not, attempting to replicate what the original Horde had done thirty years ago burned in his mind. And he refused to let that happen. That made sitting back here behind the lines unbearable. But Lukaran was right; he needed some rest before he went back out there. And with Blazieth on the way, while he hated to admit it, it was best to wait.

As if on queue, Jonathan could see the spec against the skyline that he knew would be gramps. Blazieth Harmarth, Jonathan's ancient great grandfather and a masterful mage, was making his entrance on the flying disc he'd received as a gift from Pandaria's Loremasters. He had sent one to Jonathan as well, knowing the difficulty he had getting around in the air, given most creatures' aversion to carrying him.

Blazieth landed next to the pair, and slipped the disc away. "Sorry I'm late. Are you alright, Jon?" Jon just gave a quick nod as Lukaran explained quickly that he was simply worn out from fighting all day.

"I'm good to go. Just give me a minute."

Blazieth shook his head with a small smile. "Come now, we can't have that. Here." He said, conjuring a small snack for Jon. All three of them knew that just a few bites would have Jon back to full strength, so none were surprised when he leapt to his feet. In a flash, Jon's bladed gauntlets were back in hand, and Blazieth too turned his gaze to the battlefield, a fan of small daggers made of ice forming in his hand. Lukaran, meanwhile, simply pulled two of the many large weapons off his back. "Now then... let's teach these motherless Orcs to fear the Harmarth name."

"Come now, father. Surely considering last time, we should do this as a family?"

All three heads turned back, and glared at the figure of the red-robed Forsaken who stood a few dozen feet away, clutching a wicked serrated scythe. On either side, he was flanked by a small, floating arcane eye. And who knows how many others he's got floating around here, hidden. Jon thought to himself.

Donovan Harmarth allowed himself a small smirk, but it faded quickly. "Enough. Despite what my history would suggest... I've not come to fight the three of you." The three Harmarth men did not relax. Donovan sighed. "We have more reason than you realize to oppose this Iron Horde, and I've no interest in squandering the opportunity by wasting my time fighting you. I've come to offer my assistance."

Jonathan began to growl, but Blazieth placed a hand on his arm. "I believe him. This Iron Horde threatens the Horde too, not just us. That includes him." Jonathan started to argue, but promptly stopped himself when he realized that there was no point. That, and he had to admit to himself that he too, would rather focus his attention on the new invaders.

Donovan stepped forward, and joined the other three Harmarth men as they surveyed the battle raging ahead of them. "The last time I fought against Orcs, it was two Harmarth men, and we most certainly left our mark. Now, we are four. And this time, I intend to leave more than a mere mark." A fireball sprung to life in his decrepit hand, as the other clutched harder to his scythe.

"We'll leave an Iron bloodstain." Jonathan growled, tensing himself as, across the way, Archmage Khadgar began to shout. It would seem that Donovan had arrived just in time; it was time to push through the Dark Portal itself.

***

((*to be continued*))

Jonathan shielded his face as the dwarf's explosives cleared the entrance into one of the two spires powering the portal, as the other three Harmarth men followed him inside, skittering to a halt as he did. Lukaran and Jonathan stared slack-jawed, as Blazieth scowled, and Donovan's face remained passive.

"Gramps, is that...?"

Blazieth nodded. "One of the old Shadow Council." The figure twisted and writhed, wrapped in a web of magical energy, holding him trapped. "Evidently this is how they are keeping the Portal open.

Jonathan pulled one of the throwing daggers from his shoulder and flicked it toward the imprisoned figure, and scowled as it clattered against the wall behind him. "They use them to power the portal, and then they go and make them ethereal so we can't stab them. How rude can they get?"

Donovan sighed. "Indeed."

Lukaran stepped forward, inspecting the large runestone in the middle of the room. "Regardless, we need to deal with this if we want to close that portal. Donovan, what do your eyes see about all this?"

"The energy keeping him held in check is held together centered around that runestone. Smash it, and his prison falls apart." Donovan shrugged. "So long as he is imprisoned so, he's impervious to anything we might throw at him. I doubt he's here by choice."

Lukaran prepared himself for what he knew was to be his job here. "Then let's get this over with. We deal with his prison, then we deal with him." Letting out a mighty roar, Lukaran brought a massive hammer to bear against the runestone, shattering it with one mighty blow.

Blazieth turned to Jon as the prison collapsed, allowing the prisoner to fall to the floor. "Jonathan, now!"

Jonathan leapt at the freed Shadow Council member, only to collide with the back wall, as the figure laughed his thanks, and kindly informed them how the Iron Horde was keeping the Portal open.

Donovan scowled as the figure stepped through a quick portal, and escaped unharmed. "Hrmm. Evidently the measures making them impervious did not dissipate as quickly as I'd hoped."

Lukaran raised an eyebrow as he helped Jon to his feet, then turned to the others. "Did he just say Gul'dan? Isn't he supposed to be dead?"

"For decades." Blazieth confirmed. "Perhaps they recovered his skull somehow?"

Donovan merely shook his head. "Come now, surely by now you understand what's happening here?" Before he could say anything more, however, came a roar that the portal was closing. Evidently, the others had dealt with the other spire, and with Gul'dan (or whatever they had meant). "Come on, let's get moving, and reassess the situation."

*****

((*not finished yet - but that's all for the moment. Out of time.*))

As the rest of the Refugees took a moment to rest, and recover their strength after the escape from the Shadowmoon's cave, the four Harmarth men stepped to the hill overlooking the small valley, blanketed in orcish industry, forges, workstations and weapon racks. Already small strike groups of two or three were being sent out to recover weapons to arm the rescued slaves.

"Judging by the skin color, I'd judge these to be Blackrock Orcs." Blazieth noted. "They always did have a more grey tone than green. Or brown, I suppose in this case."

"Mostly. I've spotted at least one other clan mixed in further ahead." Donovan rested on his scythe like a walking stick. "But this is definitely where the Blackrock forces are centralized."

Jonathan paced irritably off to the side, his frustration further betrayed by his low growl. "This doesn't make sense. The Blackrock clan was focused in Blackrock Mountain. How are they here? Why are there so many Mag'har Orcs, and where the hell even ARE we?!"

Lukaran shook his head, and went off to discuss with others nearby what was needed, and what was being done next. Blazieth sighed, while Donovan looked incredulously at Jonathan.

Blazieth spoke first. "That was Ner'zhul back in the cave. I never saw him myself during the Second War, but I recognize the design on his face. I had heard many times that he had a skull pattern across his face."

Donovan spoke next. "And Ner'zhul became the Lich King after Draenor's explosion, and we all know what happened to HIM. And yet there he was. Surely, Jonathan, even you recognize what has happened here? First Gul'dan and his Shadow Council, then Kilrogg Deadeye of the Bleeding Hollow, Kargath Bladefist of the Shattered Hand, and now Ner'zhul and his Shadowmoon Clan? If you still claim not to understand precisely what's happened here, you're either more a fool than I thought... or you're in denial because you know what that means."

Noting that the last of the strike parties had returned, and that the refugees were now being armed, Blazieth placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder, but Donovan waved him off. "Think about it, Jon. There has only been one point in history when all these clans and leaders were together in one place."

Blazieth's expression grew concerned. "Donovan, that's enough."

Before any further discussion could occur, the call came to begin the assault into the valley. The Draenei Exarch and the Orc Shaman that had been rescued from the Shattered Hand rallied their people, leading them into the valley. Within moments, all attention was drawn to the roof of the largest structure overlooking the valley, where a large Orcish figure in black armor stepped forward, his voice booming across the valley.

"What's this?! What good are a handful of slaves... against the Blackrock war machine!?! Blackrocks... CRUSH THEM!!"

Donovan stared up at the figure. "And there's number five. Blackhand the Destroyer. The original leader of the Horde. Standing before us... lording over the Blackrock Clan. Strange that he doesn't appear to be their Warchief here, but then, Gul'dan was also being held prisoner. I suppose things have changed this time around."

Jon stared slack-jawed up at where Blackhand had appeared, the enormity of the reality of what he had truly walked into finally crashing upon his mind. Donovan smiled. "Do you finally understand, my son? The old warlords, alive, well and leading their clans, what I can only assume to be an uncorrupted Draenor... we appear to have traveled to a Draenor that is 30 years in the past."

Jonathan took this information in, and fell to his knees. He stared at his hands, slowly clenching them into fists as he conjured his bladed gauntlets around them. The growling had returned, softly at first, but steadily growing in intensity.

Donovan watched in satisfaction as the revelations of who these Orcs were unlocked memories Jonathan had believed he had long come to terms with. It was a revelation Donovan had come to before they had even passed through the Portal. He had sent his eyes through to scout, hidden, and it had quickly been obvious where and when these Orcs were coming from, and who they were. It was why Donovan had elected to work with his family in the first place. It was perhaps the one enemy that could draw more hatred from Donovan than his own family, now.

The very Orcs who had ended his own life. An alternate version of them, perhaps, but there was little enough difference as to make none in Donovan's eyes. And, he hoped, in Jonathan's.

Blazieth approached Jon slowly, and warily, all too familiar with the signs Jon was displaying. "Jonathan, you must remain calm. We are not in a strong position here, we must approach this with a focused mind."

Jonathan did not look up. His growls grew to snarling, his entire body twitching with a mounting fury. After what seemed like an eternity, Jonathan snapped to his feet, throwing his head back in a howling roar of anguished, immeasurable rage and fury. The Orcs of the first war had taken everything from him. Everyone and everything he had ever known, slaughtered, burned, destroyed before his eyes as he desperately hid, surviving to flee by sheer miracle. It was understandable that would leave... a few emotional scars.

Donovan had been expecting Jonathan to begin running down into the valley, slaughtering everything with brown skin that he could reach. He found himself surprised however, when instead of running, Jonathan tensed himself, and leapt forward, off the steep hill employing the spectacular jumping ability of the Worgen. At what seemed the apex of the jump, Jonathan dove down, landing blades-first on an unfortunate Blackrock Orc. With the flash of an arcane teleport, Jonathan was gone, lost in the crowds. Donovan smiled despite himself.

Donovan found himself startled as Blazieth stormed over and grabbed him roughly by the chest of his robes. "What have you done?!?" The mage demanded. Donovan had forgotten how fightened he used to get of the old man when he grew angry, back before the first war had ended that era of his existence.

Donovan scowled. His Grandfather glared at him as if Jonathan himself had just been slaughtered. "I have only opened his eyes to the situation around us. In so doing, I have signed the death warrant of every mud-skinned Iron Horde FILTH of an Orc in this blasted valley. In that state their entire horde could crash down on him and not overcome my son."

"You've enraged him to utter blindness, he's going to get himself killed - not to mention any would-be Frostwolf allies. There's more than just Iron Horde among the Mag'har orcs, Donovan."

He hated to admit it, but Blazieth was right about that last part, at least. He doubted Jonathan would make distinctions in that level of frenzy - if it was an Orc with brown skin, it would die if it crossed his vision. He paused. "Find my father. I'll find one of my own companions, and they can try to focus him on the Blackrocks, and spare the Frostwolves his wrath."

Blazieth was clearly still frustrated, but relented and released Donovan. "Be quick about it. Khadgar's already working." Donovan glanced toward a small rise on the other side of the small forge-valley where Khadgar worked. He nodded, and the two split up.

Beraine Shatterhorn was easy enough to locate - her ridiculous weapon made her child's play to locate in a crowd. Donovan made his way through the throng of battling Orcs and Draenei, to say nothing of the Horde and Alliances forces in the mix, and with a gesture incinerated the foe that the Tauren woman was focused upon. Her icy blue eyes snapped to the Forsaken flamewielder. "Beraine! My son is out of control - find him, and keep his focus on the Blackrock orcs, we don't need him causing an incident with potential allies in the Frostwolves! And get him to high ground - it's obvious what Khadgar has planned." Beraine nodded, and with a swing of her polearm, cleared a path through three separate Iron Grunts in her path.

That was what he liked about her. Brutally powerful, but willing to follow his instructions. But two Death Knights alone would have trouble with this task. He pulled a small runestone from his pocket, and spoke into it quietly, despite the din of chaos around him. "I have a request of you two... with my son on a rage-fueled rampage, could the Shadowblade Brothers be so kind as to assist the two Ebon Blade knights in directing his fury away from the Frostwolves, and toward the Iron Horde forces? I can of course compensate you for the task, as well." The rune on the stone glowed white for a brief moment against the black color of the stone itself. Their way of confirming to Donovan their taking the job.

That would have to do for now. It was time to direct his attention to the battle directly, and take some revenge of his own. Fire danced in Donovan's hands, leaping to consume the hated Iron Horde who foolishly crossed the path of The Blazebringer of Goldshire.