Turalyon was battling orcs of his own, but a powerful hammer blow dropped one opponent and over the falling warrior he saw Lothar and the massive orc locked in battle. "No!" Turalyon shouted, seeing his leader and hero facing the monstrous black—armored orc. He began striking with renewed force, his hammer crushing orcs with each sweeping blow, as he desperately fought his way toward the two commanders.

They both stepped in again, hammer and sword swinging. Lothar took Doomhammer's hit full upon his lion—head shield, which crumpled from the impact and nearly drove him to his knees, but his sword caught the orc hard across the chest and dented the heavy breastplate deeply. Doomhammer stepped back, his lips pulling back in a snarl of pain and frustration, and ripped the ruined armor from his torso just as Lothar rose to his feet again and tossed his useless shield to the side. Then both bellowed and charged again.

Doomhammer was faster now without the armor, but Lothar had his sword in both hands and could dance it around the orc's defenses. Both took solid blows, Doomhammer a nasty gash across his stomach and Lothar a heavy blow to his right side, and both staggered slightly as they parted for the third time. Around them other orcs and humans fought their own savage battles, as the two powerful leaders struck out again and again, each seeking a weak point in his opponent's defense, each delivering punishing attacks and receiving them in return.

The two closed again, and Doomhammer slammed Lothar in the chest with one heavy fist, the impact rocking the Champion on his heels and denting his breastplate. Before he could recover fully Doomhammer stepped back himself and brought his massive hammer down with both hands, all his strength behind the blow. Lothar swung his sword up to block the vicious attack, and took the full force of the swing upon his blade—which shattered from the impact.

A gasp escaped Turalyon as pieces of the legendary sword fell to the ground. And Doomhammer's blow, now unimpeded, continued its glittering downward arc, striking the top of Lothar's helm with a sickening crunch. The Lion of Azeroth swayed, bringing his ruined sword down reflexively, and laid open Doomhammer's chest with the jagged half—blade before collapsing himself. There was utter silence as both sides stopped fighting and stared at the Alliance commander splayed upon the ground, his body twitching as the life fled him. And then nothing moved save the pool of blood spreading rapidly from beneath his ruined head.

Doomhammer took an unsteady step, one hand rising to press against the gaping wound across his torso. Blood leaked out around his fingers, but still he stood straight and, with an effort, raised his hammer high above his head.

"I have conquered!" he proclaimed in a hoarse whisper, swaying and spitting blood but still victorious. "And so shall all our foes die, until your world belongs to us!"

"NO!" The word burst from Turalyon's lips as he shoved through the crowd and dropped to his knees beside the dead body of his hero, his mentor, his commander. Then his gaze switched to the orc towering above him, and something within him clicked into place.

For months Turalyon had been struggling with his faith, and with one particular question: How could the Holy Light unite all creatures, all souls, when something as monstrous, as cruel, and as purely evil as the orc Horde walked this world? Unable to reconcile the two he had been unsure of himself and of the Church's teachings, and had looked on with envy as Uther and the other Paladins gave blessings and shone bright with zeal, knowing he could not match their abilities.

But something this orc, this Doomhammer, had just said had registered on some level below conscious thought, and Turalyon tried to trace it. "Until your world belongs to us," the Horde warchief had gloated. "Your world," not "our world" or even "this world."

And that was the answer.

He had remembered the Dark Portal, of course—Khadgar had told him about it when they had first met, while describing the orc menace, and it had been mentioned several times since then. But for some reason the truth of it had never really sunk in. Until now.

The orcs were not of this world.

They were foreign to this planet, to this very plane of existence. They came from elsewhere, and were powered by demons from even farther beyond.

The Holy Light did unite all life, everyone in this world. But not the orcs, who did not belong here.

And that meant his task was clear. He was charged with upholding the Holy Light and using its blazing glory to scour this world clean of all threats from without, and to maintain the purity within.

The orcs did not belong here. And that meant he could strike them down with impunity.

"By the Light, your time here has ended!" he shouted, rising to his feet. And a brilliant glow sprang up around him, so bright orcs and humans alike turned away, shielding their eyes. "You are not of this world, not of the Holy Light. You do not belong here! Begone!"

The Horde warchief grimaced and backed away a step, a hand shielding his eyes. Turalyon took advantage of the moment to crouch again beside Lothar's body.

"Go with the Light, my friend," he whispered, touching a forefinger to the fallen Champion's shattered forehead, his own tears dripping down to mix with the dead warrior's blood. "You have earned a place among the holy, and the Light welcomes you into its loving embrace." An aura sprang up around the body, glowing a pure white, and he thought the features of his dead friend relaxed slightly, growing calm, even quietly content.

Then Turalyon rose again, and now he held in one hand the shattered greatsword. "And you, foul creature," he declared, turning toward the dazzled Doomhammer. "You will pay for your crimes upon this world and its peoples!"

Doomhammer must have recognized the threat in his tone, for the orc leader gripped his hammer with both hands and swung it up, blocking the blow he sensed was coming. But Turalyon had both hands wrapped around the broken sword's hilt and brought the blade down in a blinding flash of light—and the ruined weapon slammed hard into the massive warhammer's black stone head, the impact traveling down the heavy wooden handle and shaking it free of its master's grip. The hammer fell harmlessly to the side. Doomhammer's eyes widened as he realized what had happened, and then he closed them and gave a faint nod, waiting for the rest of the blow to fall.

But Turalyon had turned the blade at the last second, and struck the orc with the flat instead of the edge. The impact drove Doomhammer to his knees, and then he collapsed alongside Lothar, but Turalyon could see the rise and fall of the warchief's back.

"You will stand trial for your crimes," he told the unconscious orc, the light building around him. "You will stand in Capital City, in chains" — it was brighter than the brightest day now, and every orc turned away, cowering from the blinding light—"as the leaders of the Alliance decide your fate, and there you will acknowledge your full defeat."

Then he turned and glanced up, this time at the other orc warriors, who had stood frozen as they had watched their leader's apparent victory converted to stunning defeat. "But you will not be so lucky," Turalyon intoned, leveling the shattered sword at them. Light lanced from it and from his hand, his head, his eyes. The black rock around him was blanched white by the power that poured from his body. "You will die here, with the rest of your kind, and this world will be rid of your taint forever!" And with that he leaped forward, the sun—bright blade already in motion. It caught the first orc in the throat before he could even react, and the brute fell, blood spurting from the wound, as Turalyon charged past him toward the other half—blinded Horde warriors.