Towering black thunderheads arced across the skies that hovered over the Burning Steppes, thick and writhing, as if the gods themselves had rode down to bear witness to the combat that was to take place -- the final great battle between Horde and Alliance. A heavy stillness charged the air, filling the chasms and craggy hiding places of the steppes with steam. Lightning reached across the cloud layer, heavy lances that burned crimson and magenta in the hellfire atmosphere of the steppes. Above it all loomed Blackrock Mountain, an onyx spire that reached above the cloud layer to pierce the sky.

The Horde had lost nearly everything they had conquered during their second campaign. They had gone north from the sweltering steppes, seeking dominion over the land, and they had nearly achieved total victory. It was only the betrayal of Gul'dan that had swept the tides of darkness back south. They had lost their holdings in Lordaeron, been pushed out of the Thandol Valley and then retreated from Khaz Modan. The Alliance forces, under the command of Anduin Lothar, the King of Stormwind, had dogged the Horde's trail the entire way south. Doomhammer surveyed his forces -– a great host of Orcs, a smattering of Zul'jin's trolls, a few goblin mercenaries, the untrustworthy leftovers of Gul'dan's death knights and red dragon forces. He knew the end of the war was at hand. All he longed for was a decisive final battle, a dramatic finish to his army. It was the only honorable way.

So, when the King of Stormwind requested to parlay with him, Doomhammer was vexed. This was not the Horde's way. Anduin Lothar wanted a different kind of peace, the kind where Orc surrendered to mankind without condition. Peace, at the cost of dignity and honor. Peace, at the cost of freedom.

King Lothar desperately wanted an end to the war with as little bloodshed as possible. He knew, rationally, that Orgrim Doomhammer's forces were outmatched by the Alliance, that the only reasonable thing to do was surrender. What he didn't know, what he could not have known, was that the Orc Warchief had no concept of surrender at all. The Orcs fought or died; it had been their way long before Gul'dan ever spoke to Kil'Jaeden. Tribal warchiefs directed their soldiers into battle with the only command being 'victory or death.' At any time, all any Orc had to do to become Warchief was to challenge and kill the Doomhammer in a duel. They did not surrender. They never had. It was disgraceful.

Orgrim Doomhammer was livid at the suggestion that the Horde willingly hand themselves over to the Alliance. It was a dishonorable suggestion, and he was enraged well past the point of reason. In the moment that surrender was offered, all the pressures of the war came down on his shoulders, the celebrations of victory, the bitter frustrations of loss, the death and the endless anger. He struck out with his weapon, the great war hammer for which he was named, and the battle was begun.

It was not a large battle. The King's forces were behind enemy lines, technically under a flag of truce. Lothar had only brought the smallest part of his army with him to parlay with the Orcs; it was meant to be a deterring force, not one that would win a fully engaged battle with the Horde. Lothar had not expected that Doomhammer would actually betray the parlay, but he was prepared to go down fighting. The two commanders viciously dueled each other, two cunning warriors with a deep hatred of one another, while their forces contended around them. Yet, however well the Alliance could fight, they were tremendously outnumbered. Doomhammer had outfitted Blackrock Mountain with all that was left of the Horde in preparation for his final battle, and Lothar's small forces were no match.

Orc and troll warriors separated Lothar and Doomhammer from the rest of the Alliance soldiers; this was to be a test of strength and endurance between the two commanders. Doomhammer's size and bulk belied his nimbleness, and the Orc dodged and blocked the King's blows with his great warhammer. The King was older than the Doomhammer and had suffered during the wars against the Orcs, but his physical prowess and knowledge of battle were great. It was a fight amongst near equals, but, in the end, the Orc was younger, bigger and stronger. Lothar tried to block a hammer strike with his sword, but it shattered, driving Lothar to the ground. There, the King of Stormwind and the Commander of the Grand Alliance was struck down, his soul sent to the spirit lands where all great warriors are able to feast and regale each other with tales of their great deeds.

A few of his adherents were able to flee. Turalyon had accompanied the King behind the Orc's front lines, and he saw Doomhammer strike down his lord. Although he cried out for revenge, he knew his duty was to save his men, and he fought his way through the Horde lines as quickly as he could. He and his small force of soldiers battled their way to safety with news of the King's death, and the remaining commanders of the Alliance grimly prepared for the great battle ahead.

The Horde had chosen their course of action. There were to be no more flags of truce flown, no more offers of surrender. There was to be no mercy asked for or granted. Doomhammer had chosen a final battle, a war of annihilation that would ultimately lead to total domination one way or another. Nothing less than absolute supremacy would suffice. This was the beginning of the end.

Yet, across the cosmos, something eldritch and deeply powerful stirred. The opening of the tomb of Sargeras had unleashed a power that beckoned to creatures with dark magics and dark hearts. Gul'dan had failed to achieve the godhood he desired, but the Burning Legion still felt the thaumaturgy that was unleashed with the tombs opening. It was magnetic to them, and they began their slow creep to Azeroth.

Somewhere in the deserts of Kalimdor, the ogre-mage Cho'gall tended to his wounds and madly seethed at the injustice of the world. It was clear to him that all the purpose of this world was lost, that the only thing to do now was to set it aflame and watch the whole thing burn. He cast out his hand, his magics flowing, seeking great sources of power. Deep inside his mind, he felt something dry and deeply hidden call back to him.

Though much of the Horde had fled Khaz Modan, the Dragonmaw clan remained behind, providing the Horde with the powerful red dragons that the war machine required. Alexstrasza pulled at the enchanted chains that bound her but still could not break free.

The Orcs and humans who now lined the battlements in the Burning Steppes knew nothing of these things, though. They did not concern themselves with the great powers of the world. The men of the human and elven kingdoms stood in the hopes that they could somehow avenge the deaths of all those who had died at the hands of the Horde. The Orcs of the Horde clans stood in the hopes that they could somehow survive the day. The unstoppable force was due to meet the immovable object, and the result would leave both armies irrevocably changed.

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Publisher Note: Join Josh next week as he continues the saga of The Assault on Blackrock Spire. In the meantime, let us what you think of Josh's World of Warcraft series.

I find his series to be a refreshing look at something greatly overlooked in games these days; the storyline. I am very interested in hearing your thoughts. Please join us in the forums. -- Chris

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