In the meantime, he had orders he was only too happy to obey. "A handful of you, stay here," he in­structed his warriors. "The rest of you, and the other clans, come with me." He grinned and raised Gorehowl high. "We have a fortress to take!"

Muradin Bronzebeard, brother to King Magni and ambassador to the human realm of Lordaeron, hurried along the corridors of the royal palace. "All these twists an' turns an' nooks and crannies," the dwarf muttered to himself. If he remembered correctly, the spiral staircase that would take him up to the king's private apartments and bal­conies was around here somewhere. He seemed to recall that if he ducked through this armory hall, he'd —

"Hoy!"

Muradin jumped slightly even as he realized the voice belonged to a child. His grin was hidden by his thick, bushy beard as he peered around a corner to see young Arthas standing in front of a suit of armor on a small pedestal. The prince was all of twelve now, a right bonnie young lad, all smiles and golden curls and rosy cheeks. At the moment, though, Prince Arthas looked very serious and had a wooden sword pointed at the throat of a suit of armor.

"Think you to pass here, vile orc?" Arthas cried. "You are in Alliance lands! I will show you mercy this once. Begone and never return!"

Although Muradin was hungry, and although he was late, he found himself watching, smiling. This was what they'd all fought for, was it not? He and Magni and their brother Brann, and the humans Lothar, rest his soul, and young Turalyon — they'd fought together against the orcs to save Ironforge toward the end of the Second War. And then Muradin and Brann had gone with the humans to the Dark Portal, to watch its de­struction with satisfaction. Keeping the wee ones safe. Buying a future for all of them.

Arthas stiffened. "What? You will not depart? I have given you a chance, but now, we fight!"

With a fierce cry, the young prince charged. He was wise enough not to actually attack the ancient suit of armor, which would no doubt incur his father's disap­proval, but set to his imaginary foe with vigor a few paces away. Muradin's grin faded. What was this? Who in the world had been teaching this boy? Look how wide and uncontrolled that pretend parry was! And the grip — ach, wrong, all wrong. He frowned terribly as after a particularly energetic swing, Arthas lost his grip on the wooden sword and it flew across the room to clatter loudly on the floor.

Arthas gasped and looked around, to see if the sound had drawn attention. His cheeks turned bright pink as he met Muradin's gaze.

"Um… Ambassador … I was just. .."

Muradin coughed, as embarrassed for the boy as Arthas himself was. "I'm lookin' fer yer father, boy. Can ye direct me? This infernal place has too many turns."

Arthas pointed to a stairway on his left. Muradin nodded and hurried up the twisting steps, anxious to be away from the scene.

He arrived just in time to hear Thoras Trollbane bel­lowing — which, he mused, was hardly anything new.

"Trade? With you? You're double damned, no-good Horde sympathizers!"

What was going on? Muradin burst onto the bal­cony, expecting to see… well, he wasn't sure what, but it certainly wasn't a small green being with large, bat­like ears and eyes that were currently wide with appre­hension. He was completely bald and wore trousers, a crisp shirt and waistcoat, and a monocle that had popped out and was now swinging wildly from a chain attached to his person.

"No, no no no!" the green creature gasped in a strained, shrieking voice, waving his hands frantically. He stood about eye level with the breakfast table at which Trollbane and King Terenas were seated and fumbled with the monocle. "You've got me all wrong! It's not like that at all!"

"Isn't it, Krix?" The mildness with which Terenas uttered the words told Muradin that nothing of real threat was going on. The king reached for a piece of bread and began to butter it.

"No!" Krix exclaimed, looking offended. "Well. One trade prince, yes. Did. That." He coughed slightly. "Al­lied with the Horde. But! Only one very foolish prince, and even he came to his senses after the Second War. But the rest of the goblins have come to realize that it's much better to remain neutral. Much better, for you, for us, for everyone! Free trade thrives that way and we all benefit!"

Muradin scowled. He knew what manner of crea­ture he was facing now — a goblin. "What's this wee green moneygrubber doing at our breakfast table, Terenas?" Muradin asked, shouldering past the creature.

Before the king could answer, the goblin burst out, "Krix Wiklish, pleasure to meet you. I see you're a dwarf!"

"Brilliant observation," Trollbane growled.

"Perhaps your people would like to enter a trade agreement! These two humans don't seem so keen on it. I mean — think about it!" Krix smiled ingratiatingly, the effect marred only by the sharpness of his teeth. "You like to mine — why, we like to tear down trees! It's a perfect business relationship! Our shredders can clear land—"

"Thank you, Krix, that will be enough," Terenas in­terrupted. "Now that Ambassador Muradin has ar­rived, we have business to attend to. I’ll talk again with you later this afternoon and look at the papers you promised me."

"What?" Muradin scowled at Terenas. "This wee bugger does deals with both sides, Terenas. I'd sooner trust a — hey!"

Krix froze, the apricot scone he had snagged halfway to his mouth. He smiled weakly. Muradin glared. Within a month of his arrival the dwarf had been on a first-name basis with every one of the palace chefs, and he had gone to extra efforts to secure the friendship of the pastry chefs. Such overtures were now bearing sweet, delicious fruit, if the scones were any indication. And now this goblin was about to de­vour his pastries!

"King Terenas asked ye tae leave," he said. Krix nod­ded. The monocle fell out again. He popped the scone into his mouth, bowed low, and scurried off.

"Ruddy parasite, that one is," growled Muradin.

"But amusing," Terenas said. "And his ideas do have merit. But now that you are here. Ambassador, I fear we must talk of less amusing things. Such as the situa­tion with King Perenolde."

"King! Bah. The word sits ill in my mouth. It's an outrage!" Trollbane cried. He slammed a fist down on the table, making cups and flagons and plates jump. "He betrays us all, damn near destroys us, and this is all he gets?" His long face set in a deep scowl. "I say prison, if not outright execution!"

"Aye, I'd not be keepin' traitors in gilded cages meself," said Muradin. He did not mince words; he said what was on his mind outright and didn't worry about whom it might offend. Muradin knew that some of the Alliance rulers found that combination distressing, but he also knew that both Terenas and his old friend Trollbane found it refreshing.

The three sat at a small table on one of the palace's higher balconies that overlooked the lake just beyond the city, with the mountains forming a backdrop be­yond. It was a stunning view; but it also served to ground their discussion, for it was through those same mountains that Orgrim Doomhammer had led his Horde, thanks to the treachery of Alterac’s ruler, Aiden Perenolde. After the war Terenas had led Alliance troops into Alterac, declaring martial law and taking Perenolde, the fellow Trollbane had been ranting against, into custody. But Terenas had simply placed the former king under house arrest, confining him to his palace and the rest of his family to close watch. Nothing more had been done with them since then.

Trollbane, for one, was not satisfied. As Perenolde's closest neighbor, he had long been forced to weather the Alterac king's wily schemes, and it had only been Trollbane's quick thinking and equally quick action that had sealed the mountain passes and cut off a por­tion of the orcish Horde. Otherwise the entire force would have flowed down onto the plains and across the lake toward Capital City itself, and most likely the city would have fallen.