The Dark Portal
Before the war, there was a marsh. Before Medivh drove a channel through the wild distances of the Twisting Nether to tie together the worlds of Azeroth and Draenor, there was an alluvial marsh, full of the kind of abundant, sweating wildlife that lived and died in the waters beneath the towering oaks and bald cypresses. It was named the Black Morass, and it was a place of great sorrows. A group of trolls that worshiped the evil god Hakkar had built a sprawling temple in the swamp, attempting to summon him to end the world. The dragon aspect Ysera learned of this foul magic and struck the temple down, drowning it and all inside in the brackish water.

For thousands of years afterward, the swamps would remain a quiet, uneventful place – until Medivh walked through the bog in the dark of night to break the barriers between two worlds. The Horde poured through with all of their violent intentions, chopping down the ancient oaks and driving out the wildlife that had made the swamps their home. The Orcs seemed to be immune to the cancerous radiation of the Dark Portal, but everything else in the area was poisoned by the foul magics it emitted. Bayonets of lightning, static discharges from the brushing of two worlds scorched the swamp trees into ash obelisks. The animals fled or were eaten by the ravenous aliens, and the water -- finding nothing to nourish -- departed for better lands and atmospheres. The Orcs called these parts the Blasted Lands.

Seven years passed between when the first Orc put boots down in the Black Morass and the defeat of the Horde at Blackrock Mountain. Seven years of war and bloodlust, of razed cities and burnt villages, of rising to victory and falling in the mud-and-blood fields of battle. The failed conquerors had retreated to the Dark Portal in one last, desperate bid to forestall annihilation, but, from their refugee camps in the Blasted Lands, the tired and broken remnants of the Horde watched their doom approach. The great militaristic might of the Alliance had arrived.

They carried banners with the Lion of Stormwind and the gauntlet of the Knights of the Silver Hand. Led by the holy paladins of the Silver Hand, they marched through the Swamp of Sorrows into the desertified Blasted Lands with ultimate victory on their mind. Turalyon and Uther the Lightbringer knew that the war was won; they had seen to that at Blackrock Mountain. Most of the Horde's leadership had been executed or imprisoned, and much of the Horde's army had been slain or retreated into the Burning Steppes. The Horde that had been a legitimate threat to the kingdoms of men, dwarves and elves was no more. All that was left were a few refugee camps in a region with no resources and no retreat.

Well, not quite ‘no retreat’. Ner'zhul -- the cowardly shaman who had tried to cease all of this and, failing to stop it, joined in anyway -- ordered his outer defenses to ready themselves. While the Orcs under his command prepared to fight and fall for their last leader, he secretly assembled his associates and directed them to follow him back into the Dark Portal if the end looked likely. To all eyes, the end certainly seemed like a surety.

It was here that Turalyon cemented his status as a master strategist. Making good use of the Elven archers that the Council of Silvermoon had lent him, he ordered a few knights to go out and lure any Horde scouts into an arrow trap. This was easily accomplished, and the Alliance army was able to bring the brunt of their military might into the Blasted Lands with no casualties.

Like the fortresses around Blackrock Mountain, the Dark Portal was coddled by three large camps. However, these camps were staffed by the dregs of the Horde. Some had guarded the Portal since the beginning of the First War, but most of the Orcs were those who had survived the defeat at Silvermoon, the long retreat through Lordaeron and Khaz Modan and the final, humiliating collapse at Blackrock Spire. Their guard towers were flimsy, their walls insecure. Their weapons were rust-streaked, and their armor was tattered and cut. Their morale, much like the swamplands, had simply evanesced into the atmosphere. Mostly, they fought now, not out of a sense that they could stave off their own death, but to wring out one last bit of honor from their violent lives.

Turalyon found the defenses to be somewhat less than intimidating. He used tactics similar to those used in the Swamp of Sorrows to draw out the enemy and then peg them full of arrows, and he was able to cut down the adversary's already small numbers by doing so. His forces were ordered to build a keep on a nearby plateau from which he could launch attacks, and thus Nethergarde Keep was born. To this day, its ramparts stand as a testament to the valor of Turalyon and the Alliance forces.



When the men of Lordaeron and Stormwind were ready, they formed their forces and marched into the first defensive line. What followed could hardly be called a battle; it was more armageddon given form. The Horde forces attempted a defense, even sending a few of the last death knights their way, but the holy men of the Silver Hand smote them with divine lightning and weapons blessed by the light. However, that front line of defense was stocked with weaklings, the machinations of Gul'dan and troll spear-throwers. Turalyon ordered his forces into the camp proper, where all hell broke loose.

This camp was controlled by the Burning Blade clan, which was an improper name. It was less of a clan, more of a chaotic mix of those too vile and murderous to remain within the other clans. This was a group comprised of mass murderers, warlocks and dishonored thieves, the very worst of the worst. They were the most violent and uncontrollable warriors in an army that prized itself on unrepentant destruction. Their warriors favored swords, not the axes that so many of the Horde loved; their spellcasters were warlocks that had been stayed behind after Gul'dan fled – essentially clan deserters. They were guarded by strong ogres who swore blood oaths to keep the Burning Blade in line and under control. When Turalyon's forces smashed into the defensive line, the battle quickly devolved into an apocalyptic act.

It took hours for the Burning Blade camp to fall. Though they were disorganized and furious to the point of madness, they were extremely powerful warriors, and they turned the camp into a bloody killing field, a meat grinder. Yet, slowly and with great determination, the Alliance pushed on, striking down the vicious warriors who fought them. A few red dragons, the Stockholm-Syndrome-afflicted scions of Alexstrasza, marked the ground with gushes of fire, but these were brought down by the gryphon riders of the Wildhammer Dwarves. The monstrously strong ogres that the Horde used were able to break a single foot soldier in half, but they melted under the rain of arrows given to them by Elven archers. There was nothing the Horde could do to defend themselves for which the Alliance had not prepared a brutally effective counterattack, and soon enough all that was left of that first camp was ash and ruin.

Ner'zhul watched all of this from his high vantage point within the Horde camp, watched the obelisks of smoke print black shadows across the flatlands, interrupted by barrages of holy light that flared like lightning into the sky. The panic of defeat had not set into his inner circle yet, but all of his soldiers could read the writing on the wall when the Brothers Blackhand were sent to personally oversee the remaining defensive camps. He stood within his tower, still as the dead, and passively watched the Alliance proceed to the second defensive camp.

The lions of men carefully assessed the larger second camp. These were orcs of the Black Tooth Grin, led by Rend and Maim Blackhand and responsible for restoring honor to the Horde by defeating the clans under Cho'gall and Gul'dan's rule. They were capable warriors, but Turalyon's forces still carried the advantage of numbers and determination. The Black Tooth Grin's bulwarks were in rough shape, but they were situated in a favorable defensive position -- within two ranges of high hills. The ballistae wouldn't be able to cross the high, rocky terrain, so Turalyon favored a more straightforward approach. He ordered a squadron of knights to charge the front gates of the camp and then retreat, drawing the enemy out. When the Orcs gave chase, they fell before a typhoon of Elven arrows. The initial defense forces cut down, the Alliance's front line advanced, systematically destroying the enemy forces and their buildings.

This victory was much quicker in coming than the first. Though they were led by two powerful Orcs, the Black Tooth Grin had suffered great casualties throughout the war, and their numbers had dwindled. Before their annihilation was complete, the Brothers Blackhand retreated into the desert hills with what was left of their clan, leaving the last scraps of the Horde to defend the Great Portal for themselves.

Turalyon didn't have the time or the forces to chase down the errant Orc clan as they fled haphazardly into the hills. His goal was nearly in sight. Only one camp stood between him and the Portal now. He ordered his secret weapon to ready, and then he led the rest of his forces against the third camp.

These were warriors under the banner of the Dragonmaw Clan, who had sworn fealty to Rend and Maim Blackhand. Their leader was a powerful shaman named Zuluhed the Whacked, and he deserved it. He had been loyal to their father, Blackhand the Destroyer, and that loyalty had moved to his sons after Blackhand's death at the hands of Orgrim Doomhammer. That loyalty had been betrayed. Upon seeing the Brothers Blackhand flee into the hills with their forces, Zuluhed knew that he had little chance of defeating the Alliance army, and he began a slow retreat towards the Dark Portal. There was no choice now and no true defense. The end was at hand.

Ner'zhul ordered many of the members of his inner circle to flee through the Dark Portal immediately. With the Sons of Blackhand now gone, any hope of fending off the Alliance had vanished like sand in the sea. The tides of darkness had been pushed back by a hurricane of light, and the failed conquerors of the Horde knew it was time to leave this world behind. Their only hope was to retreat back to Draenor.

Out in the field, though, the Horde defensive line could not hold against Turalyon's onslaught. Their leaders were taking off for the Portal, and the front line had been ordered to defend the retreat. Yet, the line was caving in on both sides, and many Orcs knew that their one salvation was to run. Though many were tempted to flee as well, the line was held in check by one idea: death awaited them if they deserted the line.



Ner'zhul and his warlocks had done the unthinkable in defending the Portal. They had drawn upon ancient and deep magics to summon demons, as tall as siege towers and drawn to murder as an epicurean endeavor. These were ered'ruin, the doomwalkers, who gorged upon the flesh of the living. As the Orc defensive lines folded under the Alliance egress, they rose up from their positions, striking down all those who ran from the front line. As the Alliance approached, they slew the foot soldiers and knights of Lordaeron as well. Entire units of the Lightbringer's forces were called upon to send these wicked beasts back to the hell that spawned them, and it took the Alliance precious time to do so. The Dragonmaw defensive line utterly folded while the demons were struck down, and much of the clan made its way for the Dark Portal.

With the demons of the Burning Legion having been dealt with, Turalyon could see to his final prize. The third defensive camp had been overwhelmed in its retreat, though a large number of Dragonmaw Orcs had managed to pass through the Portal. It was time to claim his prize.

Ner'zhul had watched the entire battle from his tower, and he could see the Knights of the Silver Hand approach the portal's last defense. A line of siege towers encircled the Portal; one last pathetic deterrence against the hurricane that had drowned the tides of darkness. The Dwarven gryphon riders unleashed their lightning maces, thunderously wrecking the old oak frames. Ner'zhul at last forfeited his watch tower and walked through the Dark Portal, hurling invectives and threats of revenge.

It was done. The Horde had been defeated, and the Grand Alliance had staved off doom. All the leaders of the army gathered for one last conversation. Some of the leaders wanted to study the Portal, while others saw it as a useful symbol. Yet, most saw it for what it was: a continuous threat that had to be destroyed. They nodded in agreement. It had to be finished.

Turalyon turned to his secret weapon, the archmage Khadgar. Having apprenticed under the tutelage of Medivh, he had become a vastly powerful sorcerer in his own right, able to decipher the arcane riddles within Medivh's notes on the Dark Portal. He knew more about the Portal than any other living being on Azeroth, and he knew the strength of magic it would take to destroy it. This was not a time for fireballs and flashy abracadabras. He had to get down to the mean, dirty magic that had kept the two worlds tied together for seven years.

Soldiers for miles around could feel their skin begin to crawl as stray dust devils traveled the ground, blown away from the portal. The air turned concrete-still, but a high-pitched keening and creaking filled their ears, as if tornadoes were blowing castles out from all around them. Hot, sulphuric smells crept up from the ground. The sky grew very dark, not with clouds but with an all-encompassing gloom that seemed to emanate from the Portal itself. The stars disappeared behind a growing darkness. Yet, there was a light, a gleaming beam that leaped from Khadgar's outstretched hand to the Portal, sweeping over it, breaking invisible locks that bound this world to the other.

Through it all, they could see the Portal. It's own brackish glow, which had not been bright in the daylight, seemed blinding in the darkness, but slowly it dwindled. The glow writhed inwards, a central vector, insufficient tendrils of black magic scrambling to hang onto the girders. Khadgar sweated under the effort, the beam from his hand doing battle on a mitochondrial level with the vile black magic of the portal. The men of Stormwind whispered prayers to the Light; some said their goodbyes.

And slowly it was done. They felt it more than they could hear it, the whip-crack of arcane tendons snapping, the howl of another world's wind receding to whispers and then silence. That hideous strength faded, the flow from the portal diminishing to a spark of its former power, a smoking, sputtering detumescence that shimmered in the portal's air. The darkness that had grown over the land faded, and benedictions of light broke through the clouds to bless the soldiers of Lordaeron, of Quel'thalas and Stormwind. The sun set on the Blasted Lands, and the races of men, dwarves and elves were safe once again.

The war was finished.

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Publisher Note: If you are like me, and have missed a few installments of Josh's series The History of Warcraft, then I encourage you to check them out in our archive. Josh does a really good job of telling the story in parts that are easily digestible as well as informative at the same time.

Join us again next week when Josh returns to Grim Batol for a look at a few events that have been left unsettled.-- Chris

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