And unfortunately still so necessary.

'Death is not the only option, not if we rebuild and use the portal," Gorefiend countered, forcing patience. "We don't have to win — we don't even need to battle the Alliance again. I have quite another plan for the Horde. If I can get ahold of certain artifacts — there are things I learned about from Gul'dan that—"

"Gul'dan and his twisted schemes — they reach out and destroy lives even from beyond the grave!" He scowled at Gorefiend. 'You and your plans! And how much power would you gain from success? Power is all you Shadow Council bastards care about!"

Gorefiend's patience, never great, had evaporated. He seized the old shaman's arms and shook him an­grily. "Two years since the portal collapsed, and you have been hiding in your village while the clans slaugh­ter each other. All they need is guidance and then they will be powerful again! Between your supporters and my death knights, we can force the clans to obey you. With Doomhammer dead or imprisoned on Azeroth, you are the only one left who can lead them. I have been examining the portal, assessing the damage, and I told you I have a solution. I've assigned several death knights to the site already. Even as I speak to you, they are working spells, preparing it for its reopening. I am sure it can succeed."

'And what is this solution?" Ner'zhul spat bitterly. "Did you discover a way for us to return to Azeroth and win the war we lost two years ago? I think not. We are doomed. We will never win." He turned away, and took a step back toward his hut.

"Never mind the war! Listen to me, old man!" the death knight shouted after him. "We do not need to defeat the Alliance because we do not need to conquer Azerothl"

Ner'zhul paused and glanced back. "But you said you could reopen the portal. Why do that if not to re­turn there?"

"Return, yes, but not for battle." Gorefiend closed the gap between them again. "We need only to find and claim certain magical artifacts. Once we have those, we can leave Azeroth and never return."

'And stay here?" Ner'zhul waved a hand, the gesture encompassing much of the stricken landscape around them. "You know as well as I that Draenor is dying. Soon it will not be able to sustain even those of us left."

He had not remembered the shaman as being so slow-witted. "It will not have to," Gorefiend assured him, speaking slowly as if to a child. "With these arti­facts in hand, we can leave both Azeroth and Draenor behind and go someplace else. Some place better."

Now he had Ner'zhul's full attention. Something like hope flickered across the white-painted face. For a long moment, Ner'zhul stood poised either to reenter his hut and resume his self-pitying seclusion, or to em­brace this new possibility.

"You have a plan for this?" the old shaman asked finally.

“I do.”

Another long pause. Gorefiend waited.

"… I will listen." Ner'zhul turned and stepped back into his hut.

But this time Teron Gorefiend — warlock and death knight — came with him.

“Look at this place!"

Genn Greymane, king of Gilneas, gestured at the citadel towering over them, the same mas­sive structure whose front gates they were striding through as he spoke. Though a large, burly man, Grey­mane was dwarfed by the edifice they were entering, the arch of its front gate more than twice his height. The other kings nodded as they too passed through, admiring the thick outer walls with their heavy block construction, but Greymane snorted, and his frown showed he did not echo their approval.

"A wall, a tower, and a single keep," he rumbled loudly, glaring at the half-completed buildings beyond. "This is where our money's gone to?"

"It's big," Thoras Trollbane pointed out, the terse Stromgarde ruler as usual wasting as few words as pos­sible. "Big is expensive."

The other kings grumbled somewhat as well. They all grieved at the costs involved. Especially since they, the Alliance leaders, were sharing the expenses equally

"How great a price do you put on safety?" com­mented the tall, slim young man near the front of the group. "Nothing worth having comes cheaply." Several of the others ceased their grumbling at the subtle ad­monition. Varian, the recently crowned young king of Stormwind, had known safety, and been robbed of it. His realm had suffered greatly at the hands of the orcs during the First War. Much of the capital city in partic­ular had been reduced to mere rubble.

"Indeed — how does the rebuilding go, Your Maj­esty?" a whip-thin man in green naval garb asked po­litely.

"Very well, thank you, Admiral," Varian replied — though Daelin Proudmoore was ruler of Kul Tiras, he preferred to use his naval title. "The Stonemasons' Guild is doing an excellent job, and I and my people owe them our gratitude. They're fine craftsmen, with skills to rival those of the dwarves themselves, and the city is rising higher and higher every day." He grinned at Greymane. "Worth every copper, I'd say."

The other kings chuckled, and one of them, tall and broad with graying blond hair and blue-green eyes, caught Trollbane's gaze and nodded approvingly. Terenas, ruler of Lordaeron, had sponsored young Varian when the prince and his people had sought refuge from the Horde, and had taken the youth into his own home until such time as Varian could be restored to his father's throne. Now that time had come, and Terenas and his old friend Trollbane were well pleased with the results. Varian was a clever, charming, noble young man, a natural leader and a gifted diplomat for one so young. Terenas had grown to think of him almost as a son, and he now took nearly a father's pride in admi­ration of the way the youth had controlled the conver­sation and distracted the other rulers from their previous complaints.

"In fact," Varian continued, pitching his voice slightly louder, "there's the miracle worker himself." The king indicated a tall and powerfully built man speaking ani­matedly with some dusty-looking workmen. The man in question had black hair and dark green eyes that sparkled as his head turned toward them, having clearly overheard the words. Terenas recognized Edwin Van-Cleef, the head of the Stonemasons' Guild and the man in charge of both Stormwind's restoration and the con­struction here at Nethergarde Keep.

Varian smiled and beckoned him over. "Master Van-Cleef, I trust the work continues apace?"

"It does. Your Majesty, thank you," VanCleef replied confidently. He banged a heavy fist against the thick outer wall and nodded proudly. "It'll hold against all comers, sire, I promise you that."

"I know it will, Master VanCleef," Stormwind's king agreed. "You've outdone yourself here, and that takes some doing."

VanCleef nodded his thanks, then turned as another man somewhere by one of the unfinished buildings called for him. "I'd best be back to work. Your Maj­esties." He bowed to the assembled rulers, then turned and hurried off toward the shouts.

"Nicely handled," Terenas said softly to Varian as they fell into pace together. "Defusing Greymane and flattering VanCleef at the same time."

The younger king grinned. "It's an honest compli­ment, and he'll work all the harder because of it," he pointed out just as quietly, "and Greymane only com­plains to hear the sound of his own voice."

"You've grown very wise for your age," Terenas said, laughing. "Or perhaps just wise in general."

Of course, Varian's hidden reprimand could not shut Greymane up for long. As they crossed the wide court­yard Gilneas's king began grumbling again, and soon those rumblings in his thick black beard formed words once more. "I know they are working hard," he admit­ted grudgingly, glaring at Varian, who grinned in reply, "but why all these buildings?" He waved a large hand at the single completed keep they were entering as they passed beneath the portcullis and up the stairs. "Why go to so much trouble — and cost — to create such a vast citadel? It is only here to maintain watch over the valley where the portal once stood, is it not? Why would a simple keep not have sufficed?"