A soft, cool breeze blew through the
upper branches of the mighty oak trees of the Hearthglen Woods. A peaceful quiet
had fallen over the tranquil forest, leaving Tirion Fordring alone with his
thoughts. His gray stallion, Mirador, trotted at an easy pace along the winding
hunting path. Though game had been strangely scarce for the past few weeks,
Tirion came to hunt here whenever the opportunity presented itself. He preferred
the grandeur and crisp air of the open country to the musty, confining halls of
his keep. He had been hunting in these woods since he was a small boy and knew
their numerous, winding trails like the back of his hand. This was the one place
he could always find refuge from the burdens and bureaucratic pressures of his
station. He mused that someday he would bring his young son, Taelan, to hunt
with him so that the boy could experience the rugged majesty of his homeland for
himself.
Lord Paladin Tirion Fordring was a powerful man. He was strong
in both mind and body, and was counted as one of the greatest warriors of his
day. Though he was slightly over fifty years of age, he still looked as fit and
dynamic as he had when a younger man. His signature bushy mustache and his
neatly trimmed brown hair were streaked with gray, but his piercing green eyes
still shone with an energy that belied his years.
Tirion was the
governor of the prosperous Alliance principality of Hearthglen, a large forested
region nestled at the crossroads between the towering Alterac Mountains and the
mist-shrouded shores of Darrowmere Lake. He was respected as a just governor and
his name and deeds were honored throughout the kingdom of Lordaeron. His great
keep, Mardenholde, was the center of commerce and trade for the bustling region.
The citizens of Hearthglen took great pride in the fact that the keep’s mighty
walls had never fallen to invaders, even during the darkest days of the orcish
invasion of Lordaeron. Yet, of late, Tirion was disgruntled to find a different
kind of army scurrying worriedly through the halls of his home.
In
recent weeks the keep had been overrun with traveling dignitaries and
representatives from the various nations of the Alliance, who passed through
Hearthglen on their secret diplomatic errands. He had met with many of them in
person, offering his hospitality and assistance wherever he could. Though the
dignitaries were appropriately appreciative of his efforts, Tirion could sense a
growing tension within all of them. He suspected that they were charged with
carrying dire news directly to the Alliance High Council. Try as he might, he
could not discern the specifics behind their urgent communiqués. Yet Tirion
Fordring was no fool. After thirty years of serving the Alliance as a Paladin,
he recognized that only one thing could cause the otherwise stoic emissaries to
be so troubled: War was returning to Lordaeron.
* * *
It had been nearly twelve years since the war
against the orcish Horde had ended. It was a terrible conflict that had raged
across the northlands, leaving many of the Alliance kingdoms razed and blackened
in its wake. Too many brave men fell before the rampaging Horde was finally
stopped. Tirion had lost a number of good friends and soldiers over the course
of the war. Though the Alliance had rallied at the eleventh hour and pulled
victory from the clutches of certain defeat, it had paid a heavy price. Almost
an entire generation of young men had selflessly given their lives to insure
that mankind would never be slaves to savage orc overlords.
Near the
war’s end, the battered and leaderless orc clans were rounded up and placed
within guarded reserves near the outskirts of the Alliance lands. Though, as a
precautionary measure, it was necessary to police the reserves with full
regiments of knights and footmen, the orcs remained docile and passive. Indeed,
as time passed, the orcs seemed to lose their raging bloodlust completely and
lapse into a strange communal stupor. Some supposed that the foul brutes’
lethargy was brought on by inactivity, but Tirion remained to be convinced. He
had seen, firsthand, the orcs’ brutality and savagery in battle. Memories of
their heinous atrocities had plagued his dreams for years after the war. He, for
one, would never believe that their warlike ways had left them completely.
* * *
Tirion prayed every night, as he always had, that
conflict would never endanger his people again. Perhaps naively, he hoped
fervently that his young son would be spared the rigors and horrors of war. As a
Paladin, he had seen far too many children orphaned or left for dead over the
course of the tragic conflict. He wondered how any child could not become cold
and disassociated when faced with terror and violence all around them. He would
certainly never allow that to happen to his own boy, that was certain. Yet,
despite his best wishes, he could not ignore the reality of the present
situation. His closest aides and advisors had been telling him of the grim
rumors for months now - that the orcs were once again on the move. Hard as it
was to believe, the presence of so many emissaries in his keep confirmed it to
be true.
If the orcs were foolish enough to rise up again, he would do
whatever it took in order to stop them. Duty had always been the one constant in
his life. He had spent the majority of his years defending Lordaeron in one way
or another. Though he had not been born a noble, his enthusiasm and honor had
won him the rank of knight at the tender age of eighteen. Tirion served his king
with undying loyalty and won a great deal of respect from his superiors. Years
later, when the orcs first invaded Lordaeron, intent on crushing civilization,
he was one of the first knights to be given the honor of standing with Uther the
Lightbringer and being anointed as a holy Paladin.
Uther, Tirion, and a
number of devout knights were hand-picked by the Archbishop Alonsus Faol to
become living vessels of the holy Light. Their special, sacred charge was
twofold: aided by the holy Light, the Paladins would not only lead the fight
against the vile forces of darkness, but heal the wounds inflicted upon the
innocent citizens of humanity as well. Tirion and his fellows were given the
divine power to heal wounds and cure diseases of every kind. They were imbued
with great strength and wisdom that enabled them to rally their brethren and
give glory to the Light. Indeed, the Paladins’ leadership and strength helped to
turn the tide of the war and insure the survival of humanity.
Though his
own Light-given powers had waned somewhat over the years, Tirion could still
feel strength and grace flow through his aging limbs. Surely he would have
strength enough when he needed it the most. For his son and for his people, he
would have strength enough, he vowed.
* * *
Clearing his head of concerns, Tirion stopped to
get his bearings. To his surprise, he found that he’d wandered much farther up
the winding path than he’d intended. The path snaked its way up and over the
densely forested mountain. There were no outposts this far up, Tirion
remembered. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t recall the last time he had
ventured up this far. He took a moment to drink in the raw beauty of the place.
He could hear babbling streams nearby and smell the clean, crisp air. The sky
was blue and clear as he watched two falcons circle high above. He truly loved
this land. He told himself that he’d return to this spot when a more opportune
moment presented itself. Running his hand through his thinning, graying hair, he
chided himself for becoming so lost in thought. He had come out to hunt, after
all. Tirion deftly turned his mount around on the thin path and spurred Mirador
to a quicker pace back down the mountain. He pulled sharply on the reins and
steered his faithful mount into the dense woods.
After a few minutes he
slowed his pace and galloped into a wide clearing that surrounded the ruins of
an abandoned guard tower. He stopped near the old tower’s base and peered up at
the lonely structure. Like many other ruins that dotted the land, it was a
painful reminder of a darker time. The tower’s walls were broken and scarred by
blackened blastmarks. Obviously the work of orcish catapults, he thought. He
remembered how the destructive machines had hurled their fiery projectiles from
great distances and devastated entire villages during the war. He wondered how
the ruined structure could still be standing after having been left to the
unforgiving elements for so long. While examining the tower’s base he caught
sight of strange tracks upon the ground. He dismounted to inspect them. His
blood nearly froze in his veins as he realized that the oversized tracks had not
been made by any man - and that they were fresh.
Tirion quickly looked
around and found more tracks scattered throughout the clearing. He surmised that
orcs had been here within the past few days at least. Could the vile brutes be
mobilizing so soon, he wondered? No. There had to be some other explanation.
Hearthglen’s borders were secure. There was no way that a group of orcs could go
undetected in his land for any length of time. Subtlety, of all things, was
definitely not a part of their nature. His scouts and guardsmen would have been
alerted to any orcish incursion into Hearthglen immediately upon their arrival.
Yet the fresh tracks were there, just the same.
* * *
Tirion walked Mirador around to the back of the
tower and drew his heavy bastard sword from the scabbard attached to his saddle.
He wished fervently that he had brought his mighty warhammer instead. Though he
was well-practiced with a blade, he would have preferred to wield his
traditional hammer, as all Paladins did in the face of danger. As stealthily as
he could, Tirion crept around the tower and entered through what was left of its
front door. A number of large wooden beams had fallen from the rickety ceiling
and splintered all over the chipped stone floor. He inspected the dilapidated
guardroom and found a small, makeshift fire pit near a ragged, patchwork
bedroll. The fire in the ash-laden pit had only recently burnt out. Apparently
the orcs had taken up residence within the old tower. Strangely, he saw no
weapons or token trophies, which orcs were fond of collecting. He wondered what
could possess the brutes to so recklessly squat on Alliance-held lands.
Deciding to return to the keep and gather his men, Tirion exited the
tower and strode boldly out into the clearing. To his surprise, he immediately
locked eyes with a gargantuan orc, who had suddenly emerged from the tree line.
The orc, who seemed as startled as Tirion, dropped the bundle of firewood it had
been carrying and reached for the broad battle- ax that was slung to its back.
Tirion gritted his teeth and brandished his own sword threateningly. Slowly, the
orc planted his feet firmly on the ground, unslinging the mighty ax.
* * *
It had been years since Tirion had laid eyes on an
orc. He looked upon the brute with unabashed awe and revulsion. Yet, through his
surging adrenaline, Tirion noticed that there was something quite different
about this orc. Certainly, the creature was as immense and well-muscled as any
other he had beheld. Its coarse, green skin and ape-like stance marked it as
clearly as any other orc. Even its hideous tusks and pointed ears were
reminiscent of every savage that Tirion had faced during the war. But something
in the creature’s stature and demeanor seemed different. There was an aged
weight in its stance and far too many wrinkles around its eyes. Its ratty beard
and ritually top-knotted hair bore heavy streaks of gray. Where most orc
warriors adorned themselves with mismatched plates of armor and spiked
gauntlets, this one wore only stitched furs and ruddy leather pants. Its calm
lethality and assured, comfortable battle stance clearly indicated that this orc
was no rampaging youngster, but, indeed, a seasoned veteran. Despite its
apparent age, it was potentially more dangerous than any orc Tirion had ever
faced.
The hulking creature stood motionless for a long moment, as if
daring Tirion to make the first move. Tirion quickly surveyed the tree line to
make certain there were no other orcs preparing to ambush him. Peering back at
the orc, he found that it had not moved even an inch. The orc nodded as if to
confirm that it was alone. The creature’s knowing gaze left Tirion with the
impression that it wanted his full attention before it engaged him in combat.
Feeling somewhat unhinged by the orc’s calm demeanor, Tirion lunged
forward. The orc easily sidestepped Tirion’s initial attack and brought his
great ax around in a wide arc. Reflexively, Tirion ducked under the savage
strike and rolled into a defensive crouch. Seizing the moment, he thrust his
blade up at the orc’s exposed belly. The creature expertly blocked the thrust
with the haft of his ax, and leapt backward to give himself more room to
maneuver. Tirion feinted to his right and then brought his blade around in a
sweeping reverse thrust. Momentarily caught off guard by the clever move, the
orc whirled around in the opposite direction and brought his ax down in a fast
overhead swipe, meant to cut Tirion in two. Tirion rolled out of the way as the
ax crashed down only inches from where he had stood. The two opponents
straightened and squared off once more. They stared at one another in surprise.
Tirion had to admit that the orc was as formidable a foe as he had ever faced.
The grim smile that passed over the orc’s bestial face seemed to impart a
similar respect for Tirion’s own abilities.
* * *
They began to circle one another, each sizing up
the other’s strengths and weaknesses. Tirion was again surprised by the orc’s
demeanor and focus. Every other orc he had encountered had rushed forward with
reckless abandon, preferring savagery and brute force to finesse and tactical
maneuvering. This orc, however, demonstrated remarkable skill and self-control.
For a moment, Tirion wondered whether or not he could actually best the
creature. For a split second, he worried that his tired limbs and reflexes would
fail him at a crucial moment. Sporadic thoughts of his beloved wife and son
being left to fend for themselves without him flashed through his mind,
weakening his resolve by a fraction. With a derisive snort, he shook off his
doubts and readied his weapon. He had faced death a hundred times. He had a job
to do. He relaxed slightly and reminded himself that his battle instincts were
as sharp as ever. And he had the power of the Light on his side. No matter how
impressive the orc’s fighting prowess might be, it was still a creature of
darkness as far as he was concerned - it was the sworn enemy of humanity, and
for that it had to die.
* * *
Rushing forward with grim resolve, Tirion slashed
at the orc with every ounce of strength he could muster. The orc was forced to
give ground before the Paladin’s furious attack. Tirion pushed the orc backward
until it felt as if his sword arm would burst into flames. The orc managed to
block and counter a number of the Paladin’s thrusts, but was thrown off-balance
by an expertly placed strike. Tirion cut a gaping gash in the orc’s thigh,
sending the brute stumbling into the dust. The old orc grunted loudly as it
slammed down onto the packed dirt. Gripping its bloodied leg in pain, the orc
attempted to rise again, clearly expecting Tirion to take advantage of its
precarious position. To its obvious surprise, Tirion backed off and slowly
motioned for it to rise. The orc blinked in astonishment.
Tirion was a
Paladin - a Knight of the Silver Hand - and to him, butchering a fallen foe in
the midst of single combat was unquestionably dishonorable. The holy code of his
Order demanded that he give the orc a reprieve. He nodded to the orc in
assurance, and once more motioned for him to rise. Gritting his sharp, yellowed
teeth in pain, the orc slowly recovered his ax and got to his feet. They stood
there for a moment, facing each other with eyes locked. The orc straightened
slightly and raised his clenched fist to his heart. A salute, Tirion realized.
Now it was Tirion’s turn to blink in disbelief. Certainly no savage orc had ever
saluted him in battle before. He conceded that perhaps there was more to the
fierce creature than he would have guessed. Nevertheless, it was his enemy. He
nodded to the orc in understanding and raised his sword again.
This time
it was the orc who surged forward. Unable to support its great weight upon its
wounded leg, the orc was forced to lunge at the Paladin with short, violent
leaps. Wielding its heavy ax with one hand, the mighty orc slashed wildly at
Tirion. The Paladin was hard-pressed to evade the brute’s savage blows, and was
forced back toward the tower’s entrance. Barely dodging a particularly brutal
strike, Tirion crashed into the guardroom through the open doorway. Momentarily
stunned, Tirion roared as the razor-sharp ax bit deep into his left arm.
Fighting to keep his head clear from pain, he managed to slash at the orc’s
exposed hand. The surprised orc howled in rage as his ax clattered upon the
stone floor. Tirion moved in, hoping to end the duel as quickly as possible.
Instantly, the orc grabbed hold of a fallen beam and swung at the
advancing Paladin.
Tirion backed up a pace as the orc swung the beam in
a clumsy arc. The beam smashed into the brittle wall. Dust and loose rock rained
down from the high ceiling. The remaining beams creaked and groaned as the
tower’s walls shifted their weight. Tirion continued his attack, cutting the
orc’s makeshift weapon to splinters with every fevered strike. Realizing the
desperate nature of its situation, the orc dropped what was left of the beam and
lunged straight at Tirion with its sinewy arms outstretched. Howling in fury,
the massive orc reached out for Tirion’s throat. The Paladin managed to stab the
orc once before the full weight of the creature’s body slammed into his. The two
entangled combatants crashed into the weakened wall as the rickety ceiling
finally gave way and collapsed down upon them.
* * *
Tirion woke to the sounds of creaking timber and
clattering stone. He blinked as thick clouds of dust settled all around him. All
else was black in the shattered guardroom. His body was numb, but he could feel
a great pressure upon his chest. As the dust cleared, he could see that he was
pinned under a large, split beam. His legs, too, were pinned beneath immense
chunks of mortar. Frantically, he looked around for any sign of the orc. He
would be defenseless if the creature decided to finish him off. Reaching down,
he grabbed hold of the beam and heaved with all of his remaining strength. The
beam toppled to the side and clattered against the rubble.
Pain
immediately flooded Tirion’s body. His head swam as the open cut on his arm
gushed his precious blood upon the floor. He attempted to lift himself up and
felt an acute burst of pain as his broken ribs ground against one another. His
right leg, too, felt like it might be broken beneath the heavy blocks of mortar.
His battered body reeling from agony and exhaustion, Tirion felt as if he would
black out. He could hear the remaining walls of the structure creaking and
groaning. The whole tower was going to collapse. With consciousness rapidly
slipping away, Tirion sensed a rustling behind him. Fighting to stay awake,
Tirion barely turned to see the orc’s green, menacing hands reaching out for
him. His gasp of terror was cut short as blackness overtook him.
