Today, a little Gershwin, a little post-metal. We're picking up the pieces of what's left of Lordaeron, so a little Russian Circles is going to set the mood. It's been a few weeks since we last put eyes on Lordaeron, since I've been busy dealing with my miniature biography of Gul'dan, so allow me a few paragraphs to lay out the desperate situation in the lands of men.

The two forces of Horde armies were cut off from each other by Elven destroyers that patrolled the waterways between Khaz Modan and Lordaeron, though small numbers of Orc commanders were able to at least get messages across the water. At least one Horde general, Urok the Scratcher, was essentially able to leave and return to Lordaeron as he pleased, but his was a rare case. For the most part, the Horde had been split in half. These weren't vast chunks of Orcs either. Of the Horde clans that had been ordered to Lordaeron, few were left entirely intact. The ravages of war had cut their numbers down, although it would have been foolhardy for any Alliance commander to expect an easy victory over their enemies. Doomhammer didn't quite feel the vice closing in on him, but he knew he was in a position of weakness. The great host he had sent to quell the Elves had been wrecked, with at least two clans betraying the Horde and two being ordered after those betrayers to silence them. Half of the standing forces in Lordaeron had sailed across the sea, and Doomhammer knew his forces looked weak.

It was time for him to make a desperate strike, and he moved his chess pieces into place. After their defeat in Quel'thalas, much of the remainders of his northern army had escaped into the foothills between Alterac and Hillsbrad, disappearing into the mountain passes. So, he ordered scouts from the Hillsbrad coast to ride into the mountains with a message for the scattered armies: regroup and gather for war. With a certain amount of trepidation, the Horde regrouped in Alterac, and when they stared down the cliffs, they saw an ancient city in their sights. Dalaran had stood against fire and foe alike for centuries. It was the second city that the men of Strom had built, and the human mages that had studied under the tutelage of the Highborne elves of Silvermoon found a happy home there. The grand spires, draped in the symbols of the Kirin Tor magocrats, reached for the sky, and the wizards who lived there were able to practice their magics in relative peace. Occasionally, someone would accidentally loose a whole demon, but those agents of the Burning Legion were dispatched. Dalaran was the Horde's target.

Meanwhile, in the south, the Horde were withdrawing from the mountain passes of Khaz Modan, leaving behind the cold for the more pleasurable, dry climates of the Badlands. A few groups remained in the mountains, enough to convince the Bronzebeards to remain hidden inside their fortresses, but much of the Horde was moving south. Doomhammer was gambling with an attack on Dalaran, and, if the dice didn't roll his way, he wanted to have his southern army in a more defensible position. The hot basalt bastions of Blackrock Mountain beckoned to him, and he listened. In the north, though, the Horde prepared for their assault on Dalaran, and the city prepared its defenses. Unlike Silvermoon, Dalaran was not surrounded by magical repelling fields, although it was still well-defended. They hid their wives, their children and their husbands and readied the military for the inevitable assault. When it came, it was like a sea wave crashing into a high wall. The Horde assault force raced down the mountain at dawn and tore into the city's defensive line. Cannons roared into the face of the Horde war machine, but the orcs pressed on. The Horde troops were still numerous, but Dalaran had more mages than any other human city in the world. Fireballs arced over the city's walls, crashing into the outlying fields where Orc troops had gathered. Bolts of lightning from the cold, blue sky set fire to the wool skins and leather that Horde troops wore. Yet, the Horde had numbers, and the commanders were wise enough to not bunch their troops too tightly. Packs of Horde soldiers broke through the defenses, eliminating human ballista squads and mage cadres that were in the field. It was a violent affair.



There isn't much to say that hasn't already been said before about the urban battle, but the outcome of this one was slightly different. The Orcs had won the day, but their numbers had been cut down considerably by the arcane barrage. Urok the Scratcher knew the troops he had left under his command were not enough to hold the city, so he committed to a scorched earth policy. Under his orders, the Orcs within the city set fire to every wooden structure they could find, burning entire districts to the ground. Goblin engineers violated the city's innermost sanctums with massive bombs, cutting down the city's great towers like pines that fall before the onslaught of a saw. Once the city was sufficiently wrecked, the Horde abandoned it, leaving the residents terrified but alive.

The Horde had one final navy in the waters off of Kul Tiras, and Urok sent them a message to prepare. The top secret naval base at Crestfall was going to be the regrouping station for the northern army of the Horde, and he marched his warriors, bloodied by their close victory over Dalaran, south to meet his transport ships. The march was uneventful. Much of the Alliance's main army was already moving into Khaz Modan to follow the Horde south into the Badlands, leaving the northern army to do what it willed. However, the northern army's ambition was much greater than its reach, and Urok knew they had to pull back or else risk total defeat at the hands of some unforeseen Alliance army. And so it went that the Horde finally retreated entirely from the mainland of Lordaeron. Urok loaded his troops in transports headed for Crestfall, and the southern army retreated from Khaz Modan, chased by an Alliance determined to achieve victory and filled with righteous fury.

The Horde had essentially been defeated, although it had cost the Alliance dearly. Most of the great cities in the North were in ruins, and the dead were scattered from Hillsbrad to Quel'Thalas. The Horde had left a bloody path on the map of Lordaeron, but they had little to show for it. The war in the North was not quite over, but everyone could see the writing on the wall. It was a quiet interregnum, a few moments of peace as both sides geared up for the final battles in the war. The navies of Quel'Thalas and Kul Tiras closed a noose around the Horde's great naval base at Crestfall, while the Alliance armies under Anduin Lothar and Turalyon pushed Doomhammer's army out of Khaz Modan. The end was very nigh. Next week: the Battle of Crestfall and probably some Miles Davis.

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