Part One: The Warchief’s Command
His son lay still. He had died weeks ago, but only now was he at rest.
I am afraid for him.
Do not be, Saurfang had said, so long ago.
He knelt on the cold, unyielding stone floor of Icecrown Citadel and gathered his boy in his arms.
They are changing our children. They have changed you.
The warlocks gave me a gift. I was once powerful. Now, I am the whirlwind, he had said. I am war
itself. I shall bring glory to my people until my dying day.
How strange those words seemed now. How tainted.
He lifted his son’s body and carried him from the citadel. The eyes of dozens of champions lay upon
him. Both Horde and Alliance soldiers stood aside. Some offered silent salutes, honoring him in his grief.
Our son must not follow your path.
Keep him on our world, my love. He will be safe. Untouched.
Icecrown Citadel vanished. The dry chill of Northrend was replaced with the warm sun and humid air of Nagrand. He laid his son upon an unlit pyre near the final resting places of his family. His son was now dressed in simple garments from Garadar, the place he had known as a boy.
Before you go, what will you name him?
He is my heart. He is the heart of my whole world, he had said.
He touched a burning torch to the pyre. Orange flames began to spread, first in the kindling, then in the chopped wooden logs. Shimmers of blue and white danced among the flames as the fire grew hotter. He made himself watch the flames consume his son. It was his boy’s final honor—he would not turn away. He watched skin give way to muscle, to bone, and finally, to ash.
I will name him Dranosh. “Heart of Draenor.”
* * *
Varok Saurfang woke up. The silence of his quarters was undisturbed but for his breathing. His cheeks were wet again, he noticed.
Dreams. Such useless things.
He did not have the sleep of the blessed, with visions that spoke of the future and offered truths about the past. Just as well. Such visions would have been wasted on him. Imagine trying to fight a war you knew you were destined to lose—or worse, destined to win. Nothing was more lethal to a warrior than complacency, and if the past year had taught this world anything, it was that fate was not easily understood.
No, his dreams were simply a stew of memories.
Sometimes, he dreamed of battles from decades past. He would be running through the streets of Shattrath again, his ears ringing with the screams of draenei and the choking rattles of mighty warriors poisoned by the warlocks’ red mist. He would chase down humans in the streets of Stormwind, feeling his skin warm as the entire city burned. He had delighted in those slaughters. The corruption pulsing through his veins had made them a joy. There had been no thought of dishonor, no hesitation at spilling the blood of innocents.
The regrets came after waking. He would feel daggers of shame buried in his middle, as painful as the day he had been freed of that corrupted blood. He did not hate the pain. He welcomed it. He had earned it. It weighed upon him heavier with each passing year, but he would bear it silently, honorably, and without complaint as penance for his wrongs. It was a small price to pay for survival. As a young orc, he had expected a quick, honorable death in battle. These days? He wondered if he was cursed to outlive everyone. He rose from his simple bedding and stood at the window that overlooked Orgrimmar. Dawn was still many hours away, and the night’s chill surrounded him. A sudden stir of shouts came from the south. He craned his neck out the window to catch a glimpse of the main gates leading to the deserts of Durotar. His quarters were in one of Orgrimmar’s highest towers, giving him a wide view of the city. He had awoken countless times over the past year to screams and alarms. The Burning Legion’s invasion of Azeroth had touched the entire world. Demons had tried to crack open the rear gates in Azshara more than once, and Orgrimmar had borne a heavy burden in victory.
Today would not be so dramatic. He could faintly see movement near the gates. The only sounds were the angry shouts of an officer of the night’s guard yelling at his subordinates.
Another spy got away, Saurfang guessed.
Alliance sightings had become more frequent in Orgrimmar over the past few weeks. The warchief had recently humbled Stormwind’s king, Anduin Wrynn, so the boy had unleashed an infestation of spies across the city—so many that it forced the guards into paranoia.
It was a clever tactic, especially since the spies kept their daggers sheathed. Killing Horde would have sparked anger and brought the two factions closer to war, but just watching the Horde, evading capture, and successfully doing so for weeks on end . . .
Even the dumbest peon understood the message: You cannot go to war. We know every move you make, and we will be ready.
Sylvanas Windrunner hadn’t taken the bait. If the warchief had unleashed her best spy hunters upon Orgrimmar—in the numbers she would have needed to root out the Alliance spies—many lives would have been lost, and not in a manner she could use to her benefit. So, she had done nothing.
Watch us all you like, was her response. You are wasting your time.
Saurfang approved. The season of war would come again eventually, as it always did. No reason to rush.
He went back to his bedding. The warchief had asked to speak with him today. He would need his rest.
* * *
Saurfang left his quarters at dawn to inspect the city.
The sun had risen well above Orgrimmar’s walls by the time he reached the Valley of Honor. It was busy today; the monks had a new batch of students to train. The pandaren leader Ji Firepaw was demonstrating a form of unarmed combat. Firepaw smiled at Saurfang, offering a small salute without interrupting his form. Saurfang saluted back, rapping his fist against his chest, and walked on.
The rear gates were already open to merchants and travelers from Bilgewater Harbor. A new shift of guards had just taken over duty. “Lots of sightings again,” reported an orc with a ragged scar on his hand.
“Spies,” spat a goblin with a pair of daggers cradled on his lap. “Love to get my hands on one of them.”
Saurfang left the rear gates and toured the northern cliffs, where all seemed well. He finished his inspection of the Valley of Spirits, and then, when he reached the front gates, he decided to deviate from his normal route. He left Orgrimmar and walked to the coastline. A few merchants and Horde naval ships had made dock, unloading cargo and resupplying for new journeys. There used to be more sails waiting in the shallows, but these days, after the losses against the Legion, there simply weren’t as many ships on the ocean.
Saurfang marked a dark figure creeping along the top of the battlements, following him to the ocean. “I see you,” he muttered to himself. In broad daylight, a spy would have difficulty leaving the city walls without being seen. Unsurprisingly, they deemed High Overlord Saurfang important enough to be watched at all times. It was almost time to report to the warchief. Saurfang returned through the front gates and heard what sounded like laughter from the battlements above him. He stopped. Yes, there was the booming laugh of a tauren, a sharp reply by an orc, and raucous guffaws from others.
Saurfang climbed the nearest ladder. Whoever those guards were, they had just volunteered to be today’s example.
* * *
Morka Bruggu took another swig and belched loudly. “That’s where I picked up this old thing.” She rapped her knuckles on the plate guard strapped to her thigh. It was cracked nearly in half, and she could have sworn it still glowed faintly green at night. It didn’t match the rest of her armor, but there was no rule that she couldn’t wear it on duty. She had earned it fair and square.
“My hammer against the pit lord’s head.” She made a splat gesture with her hands. “And suddenly he had no more need of it.”
The other Orgrimmar guards groaned. “We’re supposed to believe you killed a pit lord?” said the tauren.
What was his name? Lanagu? Something like that. His laugh shook his entire body, and he nearly lost his balance and fell off the battlements. He had drunk at least twice as much as she had. There had been more than one hidden brew skin within reach this morning.
Morka shoved her finger in his face and lightly whacked his muzzle, making him flinch. “I didn’t say I beat him alone, you chip‐horned idiot.”
He batted her hand away and snorted loudly. “Keep talking about my horns. It just tells me how much you love them.”
“Love this,” she said, making a gesture that caused the others to dissolve into hysterics. “There were about three dozen others in the fight. Poor Gurak got roasted and didn’t make it.” Morka took another drink. And then another. For Gurak. He would have wanted it that way. She passed the brew skin to her right. “The pit lord had fallen over. He was still breathing, talking about how Azeroth was going to burn—you know demons—and I used my hammer to shut him up. So technically, yes, I killed him, and as far as I was concerned, that meant I had first call on the spoils.”
Lanagu tried to look at her thigh armor with skepticism, but his eyes wandered in different directions. He had definitely drunk too much. “That plate couldn’t have fit on his legs. His legs were as big as your . . . house.”
She rapped on her armor again and grinned. “This was on his finger. My mate’s a smith, so he reshaped it a bit and—”
“What are you blasted fools doing?”
The roar wiped away every word Morka had been about to say. She should have been terrified right down to her middle, but her middle was filled with brew. She turned toward the ladder with a huge smile.
She had recognized the voice, after all.
“High Overlord Saurfang! Good to see you,” she said.
She was dimly aware of alarm bells ringing within her mind. She was drunk while on duty, and that was probably a very bad thing, but the hero of her favorite war story stood before her.
“The battle at the Crossroads,” she said. “I was there with you. Victory against the Burning Legion, for the Horde!” She shouted the last at the top of her lungs and was pleased to hear the echo bounce back all the way from the cliffs at the edge of the Valley of Strength.
She was less pleased that none of the others had joined her war cry. They looked scared—even Lanagas or whatever his name was.
And then she finally saw Saurfang’s expression. Truly saw it.
“The Crossroads,” Saurfang said quietly. “You were there?”
“Yes, my lord.” She slurred her words only a little bit.
“Did you travel to the Broken Isles?”
“No, my lord.”
“Did you storm the Tomb of Sargeras? Did you join the fight on the Legion’s homeworld?”
Saurfang’s voice was rising.
“I wasn’t invited.” Morka hiccupped and added nervously, “My lord.”
Saurfang moved toward her. “You weren’t invited? You need an invitation to do your duty? Then consider yourself formally invited to stay sober when guarding Orgrimmar!”
He shouted directly into her face. Morka did not even dare to blink.
Saurfang raised his voice even louder. “Or perhaps you’d like to explain to the warchief why her guards are laughing and drinking while Alliance spies make themselves at home inside our city walls!”
The words escaped Morka’s mouth before she could stop herself. “To hell with the Alliance and their spies. They can’t stop us from enjoying ourselves.”
Saurfang looked astonished. But was that a smile that flashed across his face? Impossible.
“Then perhaps I should ask them to take over guard duty. They can’t possibly be worse at it!”
Saurfang snatched the brew skin from Morka’s hand. He tasted the liquid inside and spat it out, looking offended. “They’d at least know what good brew tastes like. I’d rather drink demon blood again!”
He flung the skin off the battlements and turned to one of the steel torch holders along the walls. They were only needed at night, but regulations said they had to stay alight all the time. This one’s flame had gone out hours ago.
“Cold! How nice of you to provide a dark path for every Alliance rogue on the continent!” Saurfang turned his back on the guards and bellowed loudly to the city of Orgrimmar, unlit torch held high. “Isn’t that right, Alliance? Don’t they deserve some appreciation?”
A flame danced over the edge of the torch in his hand, caught for a moment, and then faded in the wind.
Saurfang stared at it. Morka stared at it. They all stared at it.
The flame came back and, for an instant, seemed to wave at him, a clear gesture of “thank you.”
Then it disappeared, leaving nothing but a wispy trail of white smoke that somehow seemed mocking.
Morka’s eyes went wide. There was an Alliance spy watching right now. There had to be. And they had just made fools of every single one of them.
Saurfang set the torch back in its holder and took a deep breath.
Morka closed her eyes.
The speech that followed left her ears ringing. He insulted their ancestors, questioned the intelligence of their mates, and doubted the existence of their spines. He described their bodies as swollen with manure yet flexible enough to perform impossible acts. He suggested they all would have been better off dying at the Legion’s hands than dishonoring his Horde by surviving. He even lamented that they had not offered themselves up first to Sargeras when he had held Azeroth in his tender
embrace, for the Dark Titan would surely have been driven away by their stench.
His words would be passed down from generation to generation, Morka was certain of it. A thousand years from now, her descendants would wake up in the night in a cold sweat with the high overlord’s fury rattling inside their skulls.
And then, when Saurfang’s voice had turned to gravel, he told them they would remain up here for the next guard shift. And the next after that. And only after that would he begin to contemplate a suitable punishment.
Then Saurfang left.
The guards stared at each other numbly. Then they returned to their posts without a word, still swaying slightly, watching the road to the city. They were still alive only because shame wasn’t lethal.
Hours later, Morka realized Saurfang had never asked any of their names. Relief flowed through her.
He wouldn’t be able to assign them additional punishments after all.
* * *
It was past time to meet the warchief. Saurfang walked back into the city, trying to keep a smile off his face.
Orgrimmar guards drunk on duty? Appalling as a commander, but understandable as a survivor. Most of the Horde still felt exhilarated from the Burning Legion’s defeat. They all should have died—and many brave troops had—but somehow, thanks to the efforts of some truly astonishing champions, their world remained free. It seemed only right to celebrate life when it so easily could have ended for everyone.
Still, there was a time and a place for celebration. Those guards wouldn’t forget that again.
He did not see anyone watching the entrance of Grommash Hold. That was odd but not a concern.
The warchief was more than capable of protecting herself.
Saurfang entered the war room. Sylvanas Windrunner was waiting for him alone. That, also, was unusual.
“Only us, Warchief?” he asked.
“Nathanos is outside,” she said. “He will make sure the Alliance cannot eavesdrop today.”
“I didn’t see him.”
“No, you did not,” she said.
He joined her at the large table in the center of the room, upon which lay a detailed map of Azeroth and its continents. Even the Wandering Isle had been drawn onto it with a wax pencil—it seemed to be swimming toward the Broken Isles. The pandaren explorers must have been delighted to hear that the islands were now safe to visit in the wake of the Legion’s defeat. Relatively safe, anyway.
The map had other, more relevant markings. There were the last known locations for the Alliance fleets—no surprises that Saurfang could see—and a few locations where Alliance scouts and explorers had clashed with goblins near Silithus. The Alliance was keeping an eye on the Horde’s activities down there, but they had not made any aggressive moves to claim the region. Yet.
None of the markings offered a clue as to why Saurfang had been called here.
“I have a question for you, High Overlord,” Sylvanas said. “If I commanded you to destroy Stormwind, how would you do it?”
Saurfang said nothing for a moment. He wondered if she was joking—or rather, amusing herself at his expense. This warchief did not make jokes. “I don’t understand,” he said.
She drummed her fingers on the map as though she could crush the center of the Alliance’s military might with her thumb. She was not smiling. “It is a simple question. Imagine that I order you to destroy Stormwind today. What would you do?”
I would challenge you to a mak’gora, because you would have lost your mind, he thought. But the question was simple, and the answer was bleak. He could show her that easily enough. Ringing the edge of the table were many small figures carved out of stone, each representing a different unit of military strength. He began to place them on the map around Stormwind, focusing on the Alliance forces first. How would they defend against a siege? Soldiers on the battlements. Ballistae and cannons behind them to rain down on any attempt to breach the walls. Gryphons over the hills to intercept flanking moves from the air. Ships at the harbor. Magic wielders present on every possible front. Stormwind was a port city with highly defensible terrain.
Then Saurfang moved Horde forces to challenge them. It was not a pretty scenario.
“We could not destroy Stormwind with a direct assault, not on land. We do not have enough ships to move our armies to Elwynn Forest without being challenged.” Saurfang tapped on the ocean just off Stormwind’s coast. The disastrous attack on the Broken Shore had left one possible approach, but it would be nearly impossible to exploit. “The Alliance’s navy is still their weak point. Ours could catch theirs by surprise. Maybe our fleet could take the docks. But we wouldn’t take the city.”
The Horde’s fleet had been battered, too. Even if they could overwhelm the Alliance fleet—debatable at best—they would still have the same problem as a land‐based approach: not enough ships to transport a suitable ground force to take and hold the city. Any landing assault in Stormwind would fail. “They would take their defenses off the walls and send them to the port, pushing us off,” he concluded.
“I agree,” Sylvanas said. “It would be a disaster. I have hopes that we will soon have an advantage over the Alliance at sea, but even so, our entire fleet would have to be committed to the attack. Every other Alliance nation could invade our territories in retaliation, and we could not stop them. Knowing all of that, how would you destroy Stormwind, High Overlord Saurfang?”
Saurfang kept a tight rein on his tone. “Do you want me to lie to you, Warchief? Do you want me to tell you it’s possible when it’s not?”
“No.” Sylvanas’s glowing eyes pierced into his. “Do not think of Stormwind as the first target. Think of it as the final objective. How would you get there?”
That sent a chill down Saurfang’s spine. “That is a long, bloody road.”
“Lok‐tar ogar,” she said.
Anger flooded Saurfang’s mind. He knew he wasn’t hiding it well, but he didn’t care. “Are you so eager for another war? After all we’ve seen?” He slapped the stone figures off the table, and they clattered around the war room. His lips pulled back, baring tusks and teeth. It would take a thousand battles—no, a thousand victories—to even conceive of a total Horde triumph over the Alliance. The cost would be devastating. And what would the reward be? To spill some Alliance blood and burn some cities? Oh, how the Horde would celebrate as they picked through the ashes of the homes and loved ones they would lose in the fighting. “You are not Garrosh Hellscream. Why do you want to throw the Horde into the meat grinder again?”
Sylvanas’s eyes did not waver, even in the face of his rage. “If I dedicated myself to peace with the Alliance, would it last a year?”
“Yes,” Saurfang said curtly.
“How about two years? Five? Ten? Fifty?”
Saurfang felt the trap closing in on him, and he did not like it. “We fought side‐by‐side against the Burning Legion. That creates bonds that are not easily broken.”
“Time breaks every bond.” Sylvanas leaned across the table. Her words flew like arrows. “What do you believe? Will peace last five years or fifty?”
He leaned forward, too, his face inches away from hers. Neither blinked. “What I believe doesn’t matter, Warchief. What do you believe?”
“I believe the exiles of Gilneas will never forgive the Horde for driving them away. I believe the living humans of Lordaeron think it is blasphemy that my people still hold their city. I believe the ancient divide between our allies in Silvermoon and their kin in Darnassus is not easily mended.” There was a
smile on Sylvanas’s face. It was not a pleasant one.
“I believe the Darkspear tribe hasn’t forgotten who drove them from their islands,” she continued. “I believe every orc your age remembers being imprisoned for years in filthy camps, wallowing in despair and surviving on human scraps. I believe every human remembers the tales of the terrible Horde that caused so much destruction in its first invasion, and I believe they blame every orc for that, no matter what your people have done to redeem yourselves. And I remember very well that I and my first Forsaken were once loyal Alliance citizens. We died for that banner, and our reward was to be hunted as vermin. I believe that there will be no permanent peace with the Alliance—not unless we win it on the battlefield on our terms. And believing that, answer this, Saurfang: what use is delaying the inevitable?”
By the spirits, she is cold.
Silence hung between them for a while. When Saurfang spoke, his voice had calmed. “Then we should talk of preparing for the next war, not starting it today.”
“We are,” she said. “You are the only living creature I know who has conquered both Stormwind and Orgrimmar, Saurfang. You say a direct attack on Stormwind is impossible with our forces today. Is the same true for the Alliance? Do we have enough natural defenses in Orgrimmar to repel a surprise assault?”
No, Saurfang concluded instantly. He rebelled against that thought, but every counterargument he could think of died quickly. Orgrimmar was more exposed than Stormwind. Its port was outside the city walls and thus was vulnerable. The civil war against Garrosh Hellscream had proved that. It would not be simple to crack open Orgrimmar again—Saurfang had spent years making sure of it—but it was possible, and he knew how it could happen. Draw off our navy, land troops in Durotar and Azshara, isolate the city, begin the siege from two directions, wait for the city to starve . . .“It’s my duty to make sure that doesn’t happen, Warchief.”
“And if it does?”
Saurfang laughed bitterly. “Then the Horde charges into battle and dies honorably that day, because there will be nothing else left for us but a slow death inside these walls.”
Sylvanas did not laugh with him. “It is my duty to stop that from happening.”
“The boy in Stormwind will not start a war tomorrow,” Saurfang said.
Her eyebrows lowered. “With Genn Greymane in his ear? We will see.”
That was a concern, Saurfang had to concede. In the thick of the fighting against the Burning Legion, Greymane had launched a mission to kill Sylvanas. It had gotten some of Stormwind’s few remaining airships destroyed.
There were whispers that Greymane had ordered the attack without Anduin’s permission, but as far as Saurfang knew, Greymane had not been punished. The implications of that were troubling, and every possible explanation led to same conclusion: the old worgen would always drive the Alliance toward war
against the Horde.
Sylvanas’s eyes glittered. “And the boy is becoming a man. What if that man decides that he has no choice but to launch a war on us?”
She pointed at the map. There was a large marking in Silithus, the place where the Dark Titan’s blade had pierced the world. “No matter what I do, that will change the balance of power. Azerite sightings are coming in from across the world, Saurfang. We still do not know its full potential, nor does the Alliance. We only know that it will create a new generation of warfare. What will war look like in twenty years? In a hundred?”
Saurfang’s voice had dropped to a low growl. “A hundred years of peace is a worthy goal.” But as soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. He knew what Sylvanas would say.
And he would agree with it.
The warchief did not disappoint. “If a hundred years of peace ends with a war that annihilates both sides, it was not a worthy goal. It was a coward’s bargain, trading the future for temporary comfort. The Horde’s children, and their children’s children, will curse our memories as they burn.” Her voice softened, but only slightly. “If life had any mercy at all, you and I would exist in peace for the rest of our days. We both have seen enough of war, but neither of us has seen the last of it.”
On that, you and I agree. “Do you have your mind made up, Warchief? Are you driving us to war? Despite the cost?”
“I see an opportunity. I need a plan to achieve it,” Sylvanas said.
“And if I cannot create a plan?”
“Then we do nothing, of course.”
“Then explain this ‘opportunity,’ Warchief,” he said. “Because I do not see it.”
“Yes, you do. You already said it,” she said. “Why is it impossible to invade Stormwind today?”
“We don’t have enough ships.” Saurfang looked at her suspiciously as he worked through the implications. How is that an opportunity? “We can commit our ships to transport or to war, but not to both—”
The answer slammed into him with such force that he literally staggered. His knees buckled, and he caught himself against the table with both arms. After a moment, he looked up at Sylvanas again, the blood draining from his face.
She had led him to a truth he had not seen, and it felt as if the entire world had changed. Only seconds ago, he had known to the very core of his being that war was impossible.
Now . . .
“You understand, yes?” Sylvanas asked quietly.
He said nothing. He couldn’t. He had been so focused on defending the Horde from the Legion thathe had been blind to the consequences of that war.
There had been a stalemate, of sorts, between the Alliance and the Horde for years. Both sides were strong and had forces placed all around the world. No action could be taken without suffering a swift reprisal. That was why Varian Wrynn had decided not to crush the Horde after the Siege of Orgrimmar—he knew how many lives it would have cost his people to see it through. And, in hindsight, it would have meant the death of Azeroth, for it had taken the full strength of both the Horde and the Alliance to ensure the world’s survival.
But the Broken Shore had altered the balance, hadn’t it? The disastrous counterstrike against the Legion had destroyed a significant portion of both factions’ fleets, and the months of warfare that followed only made the problem worse. The Horde and the Alliance still had strong positions on every continent, but they now lacked the means to reinforce them or maneuver their troops to another front.
Until our navies are rebuilt, the high seas are wild again.
That would take years to change. And once that happened, yes, that stalemate would return, and war would become too costly to pursue.
And by all the spirits, Sylvanas was right, no matter how strongly Saurfang tried to deny it. War would come again one day, and if both factions were strong, that war would raze entire nations. How many different peoples on Azeroth would become extinct in that fight?
But before then, both sides have vulnerabilities and a limited time to exploit them. For a price, we can survive.
“You believe we can secure Kalimdor,” he said. “The entire continent.” It wasn’t a question. The Alliance’s main strength was in the Eastern Kingdoms. The Horde’s was in Kalimdor.
Sylvanas inclined her head slightly. “Yes.”
Saurfang was already thinking it through. Where would the Horde need to strike? Mount Hyjal?
Azuremyst Isle? No—there was only one true center of Alliance military power, where forces were staged and could be projected to the rest of the continent. “Darnassus,” he breathed. “Teldrassil, the World Tree. Warchief, even if it is possible—”
“Is it possible?” she said. “If we marched an army to Darkshore to take the World Tree, would the Alliance be able to stop us?”
No. Not if the attack caught them by surprise. Not if the Horde could avoid getting bogged down in Ashenvale . . .
“High Overlord,” Sylvanas pressed, “speak your mind. Is it possible?”
“It is possible,” Saurfang said slowly, “but not without serious consequences.”
“Indeed.”
“We would win one battle, not the war,” Saurfang said. “If we shift the balance of power, the Alliance will respond in kind. Our nations in the Eastern Kingdoms would be vulnerable to retaliation.”
“Especially mine,” Sylvanas said.
He was glad she had said it instead of him. What target would Greymane demand the Alliance attack but Sylvanas’s seat of power? “I do not know if we can protect the Undercity, not while the Alliance is united against us.”
“And what if they were not?” Sylvanas smiled again. “What if they were divided?”
Then the Horde wins. “How would that happen? If we launch a sneak attack on the night elves’ home, the entire Alliance will seek vengeance.”
“At first, yes. They will be furious, united against our aggression,” she said. “But what will the night elves want more than anything? They will demand that the Alliance help retake their conquered home.”
But the Alliance will not have the strength, not in Kalimdor, not with their fleets.
Again. She had done it again. She had opened his mind to a new possibility, and the world shifted under his feet. The strategic implications spun out before him like the Maelstrom. “It will take years before they can even consider retaking Darnassus.”
“You understand, High Overlord,” Sylvanas said. “Think it through. What happens next?”
“They might try to conquer the Undercity . . . but Darnassus becomes our hostage against that. The night elves will not allow your city to fall if they fear it means you will destroy theirs. The same goes for a strike against Silvermoon.” Saurfang’s thoughts raced. She’s right. This could work. “And even if the Alliance agrees to retake Darnassus . . . The Gilneans!”
Sylvanas’s eyes disappeared beneath the edge of her hood. “They lost their nation years ago. The Gilneans will be furious if the Alliance acts to help the kaldorei first,” she said. “The boy in Stormwind will have a political crisis on his hands. He is smart, but he is not experienced. What happens when Genn Greymane, Malfurion Stormrage, and Tyrande Whisperwind all demand differing actions? He is not a high king like his father. The respect the others give him is a courtesy, not an obligation. Anduin Wrynn will rapidly become a leader who cannot act. If the Alliance will not march as one, each nation will act in its own interest. Each army will return home to protect their lands from us.”
“And that is how you defeat Stormwind.” Saurfang was in awe. It was brilliant. Destroying the Alliance wouldn’t take a thousand victories. It would take one. With a single strategic push, the pressure on the Alliance would cripple them for years, just as long as they could not conjure any miracles on the battlefield. “You destroy the Alliance from within. Their military might counts for nothing if their members stand alone. Then we strike peace with the individual nations and carve them away from the Alliance, piece by piece.”
“If you want your enemy to bleed to death, you inflict a wound that cannot heal. That is why I need you to make the plan, High Overlord,” Sylvanas said. “The moment our strike begins, there will be no turning back. We can divide the Alliance only if the war to conquer Darnassus does not unite them against us. That only happens if the Horde wins an honorable victory, and I am not blind—the Horde does not trust me to wage war that way.”
Once again, she was right. Saurfang chose his next words very carefully. “It will take time to prepare this. It may not even be possible, not with the Alliance watching our every move.”
Sylvanas’s smile broadened. “I believe their spies will soon become our greatest assets.”
