Resistance-4 (Patreon)

The wind shifted and stilled amongst the tall trees – what masts they would make, should they take seeds home to the valley and grow them there – and Brelan held up a hand. "Halt!" He called out, bringing the column of tired sailors behind him to a stop. Some collapsed to their knees, and even some of his brothers began to lean upon their staves, but no matter that his eyes were weary and his muscles ached under the weight of his adorned raiment he could not show a lack of conviction; he had sworn his oath to the Lord Admiral to see little Jaina home safe, and by the Tidemother he would.

No matter the dangers that had cast them off course, no matter the foul constructs that despoiled the winds and waves, he would press on. They had been denied the coast of Azshara, chased north around the continent, but they would not fail in their mission.

A passage to bring supplies to the front, to ensure that those who fought against the enemies of the Tidemother would not fight without her succour, would be found.

"D'you think it's the elves?" Some of the sailors murmured, their voices carrying through the now still air.

Though he did not reply, Brelan considered the possibility. This land would lay under their dominion, the shadowed shores upon which they had landed surely part of their empire, yet they had seen no sign even as the ocean fell away behind them. Should they appear he would offer welcome – guides would make their passage through the mount–

Wings burst through the trees, a great throaty croak echoing over them as a great raven soared overhead. Within moments the winds resumed their dance and three figures appeared in the shadows.

Trolls.

Raising his staff, Brelan prepared for battle. All knew the depredations of the trolls and what they would do to those that intruded upon their domain. Yet, the whispers of the Tidemother in the wind held him back from striking first; instead, he held out a hand to belay the actions of his army and waited.

And his patience was rewarded. One, wearing a grinning wooden mask that covered his face and with many painted sigils upon his dark purple skin, stepped forward into the gloomy light that filtered through the trees. "I be Ik'Cor, mon. High Priest of the Shadowtooth Clan." The trolls' voice was not in common, he spoke in the guttural trollish tongue, and at his belt, a shrunken head echoed the words. "And you be the 'Stormy Song', right mon?"

"I am Lord Stormsong, Tidesage of Kul'Tiras and disciple of the Tidemother." Brelan returned the greeting. "What brings you to our path, troll?"

The troll shrugged languidly, as only a troll could; gangly limbs shifting as he rose close to his full height before hunching over once more. "Da spirits be speakin' o' you an' your battle, mon." He gestured towards the mountain. "We be here for a long, long time. We be rememberin' the last time the skies burned with fire. You gonna fight 'em, mon?"

Silence fell as Brelan stared at the troll, taking in his words. He lowered his staff to the ground and dismissed the preparations of the army with a wave.

Who was he, a blessed disciple of the Tidemother, to deny divine intervention?

"We will fight the demons, Ik'Cor. We come bearing supplies from a cove by the coast, where more will be delivered. All that we can carry to the mountain summit shall be used in battle." He spoke calmly to the troll, an amused smile gracing his lips. "Will you guide us through these mountains of yours?"

Lifting the mask from his face, revealing old eyes, Ik'Cor grinned back with far too many tusks. "Yeah, mon, for a price."

As Brelan gave the order to bring up the paychests, silver and gold so that the troll could be bought, the raven flew overhead once more. Though most of the sailors paid the bird little heed, Brelan saw as the troll's eyes followed its flight.

It was a reminder that the Tidemother had allies of her own, and all, from the great to the small, would weigh in on the battles to come. Even those that might once have been foes.

-oOoOo-

Stone clashed upon Blackrock forged steel as Grom sharpened Gorehowl for the days ahead. Already he had felled corruption aplenty, demonic corpses littered the field and spilled their sickly green blood into the soil; yet even he knew that their presence could not account for the foulness that surrounded them. The air itself was thick with miasma, a poisonous fog that lingered no matter the time of day and carried with it the magic of the demons.

Those that had followed him, his Warsong clan and a few brave others who sought to end the demon's reign of terror, were hard at work cutting down the befouled forest lest it spread its corruption further. Great blazes burnt what could not be salvaged; fire might not cleanse this taint, but it would stall it.

For a time.

Raising his head from his work, Grom looked upon the cadre of druids – male elves, clad in furs and leathers, that not only carried the might of great beasts but took up their forms as their own – that sought to save one of their 'ancients' that had fallen to the poison.

"It won't work." He grunted, sparks flying as he drew the whetstone down the blade of his axe. "Not until the source is dead."

Only by the death of Mannoroth had their curse been lifted. Only by the ending of whatever demon had cursed this land could it be saved; waiting here was pointless.

Baring his teeth he stood and examined his work. Gorehowl had suffered under the corrosive blood of the demons, faced challenges few weapons could survive, but with a few hours of work it gleamed and thirsted for blood once more. Still as mighty as the Gronn whose hearts it had claimed as its own and first quenched its bloodlust.

It would do. "Gargok! Prepare the riders for battle!" Grom had chosen to follow the younger Stormrage brother because he knew he was no protector, suited to stand in battle against an oncoming tide. "I shall find Stormrage and we shall wait no longer." Let him take up the hunt, cut down their rearguard, harry their supplies, sever their limbs, and bleed them dry; that was the way of the Warsong. Always moving, always fighting, always hunting, for to stop and delay was to die without axe in hand.

And Grom would not sell his life lightly. The debt he owed for allowing the demons to trick them would be paid in blood; the demons or his own.

-oOoOo-

It did not take Grom long to find Illidan Stormrage, the clash of blades ringing clearly through the trees soon after he left the campsite they had chosen. A bubbling anger, hot and heady, surged within him at the thought that his guide to the slaughter of demons had charged into battle without him...

Yet it was not demons the elf fought.

"We could go on fighting like this forever." Stormrage said condescendingly as he parried a blow and sent it spiralling to the side. A moment later a flick of his wrist sent a bolt of flame out, and his foe flinched. "So long, of course, as you learn to control your fear."

"I fear nothing, elf." The white-haired human, clad in metal that seeped icy mist from every joint, spat back. Shards of ice formed along his blade and blasted forward.

Stormrage laughed as he sidestepped the magic with ease. "You fight like one accustomed to mounted combat. Lost your mount too recently, boy?"

Half of the human's face was gone, the eye through which he might have seen Grom little more than a boiled ruin of scarred flesh and seared bone. The stench of rot and death which accompanied their foes was strong, and Grom was not without the guile to approach calmly from behind while the enemy before him was distracted. Human the being might once have been, but no longer.

"Enough of this!" The undead monster spat. "No matter your skill, elf, you shall not best me swiftly. There is no more point to this battle."

A smirk was his answer, Stormrage's blind eyes not betraying Grom's approach. "You approached me for a reason, human. What is it you truly want?"

"The dreadlord who commands this army is called Tichondrius. He controls a powerful warlock artifact called the Skull of Gul'Dan." Stepping back the human seemed to believe the fight was over, but at the mention of the warlock's name, Grom's nostrils flared. "It is respons–"

"Lok'tar Ogar!" Grom roared, leaping forward across the gap between them and bringing Gorehowl down upon the undead – but he was swift. A single step, a raised arm, a shocked glare, and his blade blocked the screaming axe as it fell upon him.

"This is not your place, orc." The monster spat angrily as fetid Death coiled in the undead's spare hand, so akin to the work of Gul'Dan's pet death knights, and launched at Grom's gut. "I have business with the demon hunter."

The magic was painful, a rot seeping into his veins. Yet it was nothing compared to that which he had willingly consumed; fury boiled up within him and he screamed his defiance. A punch into the undead's scarred face saw him reeling, Gorehowl screaming through the air pushing him back.

Into the arms of the waiting Stormrage.

"I told you that you would regret approaching me." Stormrage said gleefully, his warglaives falling upon the death knight and pushing them back further. "I am no fool to be manipulated by a child of less than a century!"

Forced upon the defensive the death knight glowered furiously, marching backward with each moment. "My master sees all, demon hunter. Power lies within your grasp! Seize it, and your enemies will be undone." Darkness shrouded his hand, running up the whispering and frozen blade, and then lashed out into the land surrounding them. "But if you shall not listen, then so be it. Others will gladly take your place in the history of this world, brother of Malfurion."

Where the whispering darkness struck the ground corpses clawed their way free of the soil. Elves, demons, beasts; all manner of things set upon them as the death knight fled.

Though Grom cleaved through the first of the fodder with a single blow, Stormrage hesitated to take the opening to pursue, allowing the death knight to escape. "Coward!" Grom spat at the retreating monster.

"Only a fool fights a battle they will not certainly win." The death knight sneered as he slipped through the rotting and corrupted trees. "And my master is no fool, orc; unlike your precious brother."

It took little effort, yet too much time, to cut down those that harried them, and now fetid black blood mixed with the Fel poison that tainted the soil. Grom almost preferred the desolate and wasted ruin that Tanaan had become, the Hellfire, to what this place was becoming. "The next time I see that creature, it dies." He bared his teeth at Stormrage – the contemplation on the elf's face kept his rage simmering under his skin. "Nothing that speaks of that warlock can be trusted."

"You know this Gul'Dan?" Stormrage asked curiously.

"The one who led my people to our corruption." Grom spat upon the corpse at his feet, pulling Gorehowl from the bear creature's skull. "The one who gifted us a poison your genesaur lord freed us from. He is dead and best he remains that way."

Stormrage hummed as he cleaned off his own blades. "I see. A powerful warlock's artifact, a remnant of their essence... it would do to create the corruption. That one is our enemy, yet they have done us a service. We shall find this skull and end the corruption of my beloved's home."

Grom snorted loudly, but nodded and conceded the point. If such a thing was here, then seeing it destroyed... it would be a joyous moment.

-oOoOo-

"This place be changed, mon." Ik'Cor hissed out darkly as they reached a befouled river, the blessed waters that would flow into the Tidemother's embrace tainted with demonic magics. "Shoulda gone anodda way... spirits be stupid sometimes. Uncaring if we live or die."

Brelan shook his head; he could feel the Tidemother's anger at what lay before them. Something, someone, had defiled her waters. Sought to pollute her very being. "This remains the most direct path to the summit?" He asked, receiving a nod from the troll. "Then we shall press on." The spirits brought this way for a reason, showed them this act of the enemy for some purpose.

No doubt the perpetrator intended to isolate those that had reached the summit, to seal them behind the tainted lands and provide ample grounds in which their own forces could reign freely. To allow it to remain would jeopardise his mission – even now, from the headwaters of this river, Brelan could feel the taint spreading.

Strengthening.

Flowing.

His skin crawled at the thought of leaving such foulness free to remain, to imagine his own home of Stormsong Valley corrupted and poisoned by such magic. "If you do not wish to escort us further, you may wait here." He told told the troll priest. "My tidesages and I shall cleanse this place before it spreads so far that the enemy's goals are achieved."

Hearing his words, the whispers of the Tidemother, and knowing that their will was joined, his fellows raised their staves alongside his.

The waters before them churned, pale green liquid rising and flailing as something dark bubbled up from beneath. Purest blue rose forth as one of the Tidemother's daughters appeared – a cleansing elemental touched with her tempestuous rage at what had been wrought.

Befouled globules of water flew out of the river, scattering upon the ground where they formed into vessels of the taint. Slicing winds cut into them, cutlasses and pistol shot pierced their filth, and great tentacles of pure water crashed down upon them. More and more the taint was drawn out and destroyed, the roiling fury of the Tidemother's daughter not abating.

It was a battle that could not be won. Not here. Yet the river flowed cleanly beyond their position, glistening fresh water running down its bed to reach the cascading waterfall into the lands below. "We shall find the source of this taint. And we shall destroy it."

"Tidehunter's Will." The bubbling voice of a stream came from the elemental. "Storms Wake."

"As the Tidemother wills." Brother Pike said, taking the lead as he and the other tidesages began to cleanse their way up the river.

Ik'Cor looked at Brelan carefully, his expression not betraying his thoughts. "We be waiting two days, mon. If ye don't come back we go an' tell your lady what happened." He stretched and started to walk away, back the way they came. "Might fight for our home too. If they pay."

"Mercenary." Brelan said chidingly, but otherwise ignored the troll's greed. There were more important matters than the cowardice and lacking scruples of his guides.

-oOoOo-

"Something is amiss." Stormrage paused in cleaning his warglaives, staring out into the distance. The direction they had been marching for the last day to reach the source of the forest's corruption. "You have not sent out your clan ahead of us again have you, orc? They meddle with things they do not understand."

"I served Gul'Dan as a warlock for years." Torag growled under the wolf hood that denoted his status as a shaman. "We understand well what we face."

Snorting, Grom nodded his agreement with Torag as he hauled Gorehowl out of the skull of another doomguard, his second greater demon kill for the morning. "Eleven and twelve." He said, looking at Stormrage's single kill. "And ten for you. Are you deflecting from your inadequacies, elf?" Smirking, he watched the irritation on Stormrage's face grow; the elf prided himself on killing demons, and he was good at it. But he picked at the edges, dancing with his foes, while Grom waded in and claimed his kills.

Blood seeped from his side as Torag worked to heal his wounds, but his foes had learned the price of making him bleed was more than they could afford to pay.

"Had I not struck down the necromancer you would have fallen under the tide and required rescuing. Again." Stormrage countered haughtily, but did not avert his gaze from what had caught his attention. "Only counting the foes larger than ourselves... it ignores the targets of true value."

Chuckling, Grom marvelled at how easy it was to provoke the elf's ire. "We came to kill demons. A mewling human mage is no demon." Even the necromancer's abominations were of little interest to him; it was the demon's deaths he owed to the Genesaur Lord. Everything else was merely... pleasure. "Warsong! Pick the bodies clean! Tear down their dark shrines! Burn them all to ashes!"

Stormrage's attention snapped to him. "No. There is not time – hurry, orc."

Without another word he charged ahead, sprinting off with reckless abandon. His own soldiers, the elves that fought hard to keep up with the Warsong and relentless demon hunter, took a moment to gather themselves and follow.

"Fool." Grom grunted before looking at his clan. "What are you waiting for?! After them!" His speed was not enough to match the elf's, but it would not take long to catch up.

After days of fighting, cutting their way through the forces in the corrupted forest, Grom could feel how close they were to their goal. That corrupted remnant of Gul'Dan's evil that he would relish crushing beneath his boot. It was hardly enough, nor his glory to claim... but claim it he would. None could claim that he could not be selfish when it came to seizing a kill or trophy for himself.

Trampling paws caught up to him quickly, the wolf riders matching his long strides. But it was Torag that lingered by his side most closely.

"The Elements stir, chieftain." He bit out between heaving breaths as they ran. "Air and Water. A tempest, a storm. I did not feel it until the elf... the demon taint. Too much."

Grom grunted back, picking up the pace. Had Thrall found and sought to claim his prize?

His thought was soon answered as they crested the hill, its slopes littered with more broken demons – and amongst them, humans. A circle of shamans, human shamans, channelled water into a skull resting upon a pedestal; were they the ones corrupting the forest? But the elemental that guarded them was pure. Clean water made up its form, strange as it was, and it struck out against Stormrage.

"Stop! You meddling fools!" Stormrage bellowed at them angrily, dodging the blow and trying to slip around the elemental. "Ignorant buffoons!"

He was stopped by a pair of humans interposing themselves between him and his targets, wearing a tabard depicting an anchor symbol. That of the... island kingdom, and the Proudmoore girl. Their... allies. Grom's blood pounded in his ears, the veins in his neck throbbing, but he held still as he looked over the battle. Why had Stormrage leapt into this fight? Why had he chosen to assault the humans? He would not allow his rage to rule him, to break his little brother's peace.

A tall human wearing a hat that looked like a squid stepped away from the others. "Tidemother, banish this traitor who seeks to protect the defiling evil!" He yelled, a wave of water tearing away from their ritual to wash through the elemental and push Stormrage back.

Torag huffed and puffed at his side and Grom caught his arm, steadying him. "What are they doing?" He demanded.

"Purif... purifation. Cleansing. Only... only... not..."

"You ignorant children only harm yourselves!" Stormrage snapped, recovering from being knocked away and thrusting a blade into the elemental. There was a pulse of something as it shimmered, falling apart, and the tattoos on his skin glowed.

"Not working..." Torag finished.

The elves joined the battle, a volley of arrows falling down upon the humans; some averted by a barrier of wind that cast them aside, others landing true. And with the testimony of his shaman that something was amiss, Grom was ready to join them – only to pause, Gorehowl held high, as a bird landed between Stormrage and the human shaman, and changed; like the druids did, yet not.

Though he had never seen the man it turned into, he knew them regardless. His little brother had spoken of his prophet on their journey to Kalimdor, and more recently with frustration.

"Cease this pointless fighting!" The prophet ordered, his staff slamming into the ground and erecting a barrier between the two sides. "There are greater threats for you to test your blades against, Illidan Stormrage."

Stormrage did not speak before testing the barrier, his weapons glancing and sliding along its surface. "Preventing the meddling of children in things they do not understand is not pointless, Prophet." He spat, pointing at one of the shamans who shook under the strain of the ritual, her eyes glowing faintly green. "They have neither the skill nor ability to do what they seek! They merely poison themselves with the very magic they seek to destroy." There was hunger in Stormrage's gaze, hunger Grom recognised, as he looked back upon the skull. "I have the skill to take up the power it offers and use it against our true foes."

"And what then?!" Grom screamed furiously, scarcely realising it had been him until a moment after. "And what then? When your blood runs with the demon's power, when you have wreaked havoc and bloodshed upon the world, what then? What price shall you pay for your newfound strength?"

Illidan rounded on Grom, cutting through the air with his warglaive defiantly. "Whatever price I must. As I always have."

"Then what price shall you make us pay for your power, Illidan?" Grom growled darkly, knowing the truth of what lay down that path. "I came here to kill demons. Not allow them to be born. If I must cut you down..."

In his hands Gorehowl all but begged for blood to be spilt. A true rage, a great fury, not merely the thrill of battle, falling upon him, and only sheer force of will holding him in place.

"I shall do it gladly."

There were whispers, discussions, conversations. So many voices behind Grom that spoke of what side they would take; the elves deciding if they wished to follow Stormrage still. But none of it mattered, none of it could be heard; all there was in his mind was the elf before him.

And whether he would need to die to stop him from taking up the curse of his own free will.

A hundred thunderous heartbeats passed before Illidan Stormrage clicked his tongue. "Very well. We will begin your ritual again... human. This time, without ignorance leading you to your downfall."

Watching as the shamans and elves gathered to do their work properly, under the guidance of those that understood the demons, Grom felt his blood slow and calm. The bloodrage denied, allowed to fade; would Thrall be proud of what he did? Peace... was a strange thing.

To be truthful, he did not enjoy it.

-oOoOo-

"And with the destruction of the Skull of Gul'Dan they swiftly moved to strike at Lord Tichondrius' fortress of Jaedenar." Anetheron reported dutifully to his master, Lord Archmonde, with his head bowed low. He stood beside his remaining brother, barely able to even look up enough to see the broken body of Ordanus as it was tormented by imps pulling at and burning what little skin remained on its form. "Their force was overwhelming and they quickly crushed his defences, striking him down."

Perhaps, had Lord Archimonde not ordered that Tichondrius not be barred from retreating to the Twisting Nether under pain of his own personal attentions, Tichondrius would not have fallen. Or if he had not been left crippled from his previous failings, he might have been able to fight back effectively against the armies that faced him...

But to voice such thoughts before the right hand of Sargeras was to invite such suffering unto himself. Anetheron was furious for his brother's defeat, the suffering inflicted upon him, but he would seek his revenge upon those he could reach.

The mortals that dared to defy the Legion's conquest of this world. Learning of the elemental worship of those Tidesages certainly left him with an avenue of attack, should he wish to take it.

"First Mannoroth." Lord Archimonde ground out furiously. A cloven hoof lowered gently onto the legs of Ordanus, grinding it against the sharp stones beneath. "Now Tichondrius. My generals fail me one by one, and all the while the demigod evades me." Dark eyes turned upon Anetheron. "Do not think I have forgotten how claiming his child was your plan, Anetheron. How you claimed that he would be lured out to battle in order to protect his foolhardy spawn."

"A miscalculation, My Lord." Anetheron bowed lower. "I misjudged the Forest Lord's... compassion and love for his own children." He had misjudged the Forest Lord's intelligence, but to couch events in such an illogical fashion would make his failings seem lesser.

"Foolishness. I can waste no more time on this foolishness." Lord Archimonde kicked Ordanus to the side. "Do with him as you please; I shall end this. The Well of Eternity awaits."

His intent was clear, and only made clearer as he gathered the remaining lesser lieutenants of the Legion that remained. The assault on Mount Hyjal was to begin, whether or not the demi-god Cenarius had been caught or not.

For weeks they had chased each sighting of the Forest Lord, hunting him down to remove their greatest threat before claiming their prize. And each time he had slipped away, fighting briefly before melding into the forests and disappearing through the trees.

The broken body lying at Anetheron's feet had been their only prize. One of Cenarius' sons, one of his most valuable pawns; something an embodiment of Life should have cared for...

Sneering at the broken and barely breathing body Anetheron decided then and there what should be done with him. "If his father does not wish to rescue him, others may claim him." He said to Mephistroth. "The Satyr would certainly enjoy having a new member of their fellowship... and he can even come to bring their companionship to his father in time."

His remaining brother grinned viciously and started to laugh. "I will see it done. You aid our Lord with his preparations."

Hissing in distaste at the delegation, Anetheron nodded. Mephistroth's duty of watching over the Scourge gave him less leeway to aid in corralling the likes of the infernals than Anetheron would have. And neither of them could afford to fail Lord Archimonde now.