The Burning Legion has been defeated, and eastern regions of Kalimdor are now shared by two nations: the orcs of Durotar, led by their noble Warchief, Thrall; and the humans of Theramore, led by one of the most powerful mages alive -- Lady Jaina Proudmoore.

But the tentative peace between orcs and humans is suddenly crumbling. Random attacks against Durotar's holdings suggest that the humans have renewed their aggression toward the orcs. Now Jaina and Thrall must avert disaster before old hatreds are rekindled -- and Kalimdor is plunged into another devastating war.

Jaina's search to uncover the truth behind the attacks leads her to a shocking revelation. Her encounter with a legendary, long-lost wizard will challenge everything that she believes and illuminate the secret history of the world of...

About the Author

Keith R.A. DeCandido was born and raised in New York City to a family of librarians. He has written over two dozen novels, as well as short stories, nonfiction, eBooks, and comic books, most of them in various media universes, among them Star Trek, World of Warcraft, Starcraft, Marvel Comics, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Serenity, Resident Evil, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda, Farscape, Xena, and Doctor Who. His original novel Dragon Precinct was published in 2004, and he's also edited several anthologies, among them the award-nominated Imaginings and two Star Trek anthologies. Keith is also a musician, having played percussion for the bands the Don't Quit Your Day Job Players, the Boogie Knights, and the Randy Bandits, as well as several solo acts. In what he laughingly calls his spare time, Keith follows the New York Yankees and practices kenshikai karate. He still lives in New York City with his girlfriend and two insane cats.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Erik had been cleaning ale off the demon skull mounted behind the bar when the stranger walked in.

The Demonsbane Inn and Tavern didn't usually get much by way of tourists. Rare was the day when Erik didn't know the face of one of his patrons. More common was when he didn't know their names -- he only remembered their faces due to repeated exposure. Erik didn't much care who came into his tavern, as long as they had coin and a thirst.

Sitting down at a table, the stranger seemed to be either waiting for something or looking for something. He wasn't looking at the dark wooden walls -- though you could barely see them, seeing as how the Demonsbane had no windows and illumination only from a couple of torches -- or at the small round wooden tables and stools that festooned the floor. Erik never bothered to arrange the tables in any particular pattern, since folks would just go and move them around to suit themselves anyhow.

After a minute, the stranger got up and walked up to the wooden bar. "I'm trying to get some table service."

"Don't have none," Erik said. He never saw the sense in paying good money for waiters. If folks wanted a drink, they could walk up to the bar. If they were too drunk to walk up to the bar, he didn't want them to drink anymore anyhow, since folks who were that drunk were like to start fights. Erik ran a quiet tavern.

The stranger plunked a silver piece on the bar and asked, "What's the most expensive drink you have there?"

"That'd be the boar's grog from the north. Orcs make it, ferment it in -- "

The stranger's nose wrinkled. "No -- no orc drink."

Erik shrugged. People had weird considerations when it came to alcohol. He'd seen folks argue about the relative merits of beer versus corn whiskey with more intensity than they brought to political or religious disagreements. If this gentleman didn't like orc drinks, that wasn't Erik's lookout. "Got corn whiskey -- fresh batch made last month."

"Sold." The stranger smacked his hand on the wooden bar, disturbing some of the nut shells, berry seeds, and other detritus that had gathered there. Erik only cleaned the bar about once a year or so -- unlike the demon skull, no one could really see the bar, and he never saw the need to clean a surface that wasn't visible.

One of the regulars, a soldier who always drank the grog, turned to look at the stranger. "Mind tellin' me what you got against orc booze?"

The stranger shrugged while Erik pulled the glass bottle of corn whiskey off the shelf and poured some of its contents into a mug that was mostly clean.

"I have nothing against orc drink, good sir -- it's orcs themselves I have issue with." The stranger held out a hand. "My name is Margoz. I'm a fisherman by trade, and I have to say that I'm not well pleased with how my nets have filled up this season."

Not bothering to shake the hand or introduce himself, the soldier said, "All that tells me is you ain't no good as a fisherman."

Lowering his hand upon realizing that the soldier wasn't feeling friendly, Margoz took his corn whiskey instead. "I'm a fine fisherman, sir -- I thrived in Kul Tiras, before circumstances forced me to move here."

On the other side of Margoz sat a merchant who sputtered into his ale. "Circumstances. Right. Got conscripted to fight the Burning Legion, did you?"

Margoz nodded. "As I'm sure many were. I tried to make a new life for myself here in Theramore -- but how can I, with the damned greenskins taking all the good fishing waters for themselves?"

Erik found himself nodding in agreement with the first half of Margoz's statement, if not the second. He himself had come to Theramore after the Burning Legion was driven off -- not to fight, as the fighting was over by the time he made the journey, but to claim his inheritance. Erik's brother Olaf had fought against the Legion and died, leaving Erik enough coin to build the tavern Olaf had dreamed of opening after he finished his service. In addition to the money, Erik was bequeathed the skull of a demon that Olaf had slain in combat. Erik had never particularly wanted to run a tavern, but he'd never particularly wanted to do anything else, so he opened the Demonsbane in honor of his brother. He figured, rightly, that the community of humans in Theramore would gravitate toward a place with a name that symbolized the driving off of demons that led to the city-state's formation.

"I ain't standin' for this," the soldier said. "You fought in the war, fisherman -- you know what the orcs did for us."

"What they did for us is not what distresses me, good sir," Margoz said, "but rather what they are doing to us now."

"They get the best of everything." This was the boat captain at one of the tables behind the soldier. "Up Ratchet way, them goblins always favor orcs for repairs or dock space. Last month, I had to wait half a day 'fore they'd let me dock my skiff, but some orc boat come by two hour after me, and got a spot right off."

Turning to face the captain, the soldier said, "Then go somewhere other than Ratchet."

"T'ain't always an option," the captain said with a sneer.

"'S not like they always need the repairin', neither," the man with the captain -- Erik thought it might have been his first mate, since they dressed similarly -- said. "They got oaks up in mountains above Orgrimmar, be makin' their ships from them. What we got? Weak spruce is all. They hoard 'em, they do, keepin' all the good wood. Our boats'll be leakin' all over thanks to the marshy garbage we gotta work with."

Several other voices muttered in agreement with this sentiment.

"So you'd all like it better if the orcs weren't around?" The soldier slammed his fist on the bar. "Without them, we'd be demon-food, and that's a fact."

"I don't think anyone's denying that." Margoz sipped from his whiskey mug. "Still, there does seem to be an unequal distribution of resources."

"Orcs used to be slaves, you know." This was someone else at the bar whom Erik couldn't see from where he was standing. "To humans, and to the Burning Legion, if you think about it. Can't blame 'em for wanting to take everything they can now."

"I can if they're takin' it away from us," the captain said.

The merchant nodded. "You know, they're not from here. They came from some other world, and the Burning Legion brought 'em here."

The first mate muttered, "Maybe they oughta go back where they came."

"Makes you wonder what Lady Proudmoore was thinking," Margoz said.

Erik frowned. At those words, the tavern suddenly got rather quiet. Lots of people had been muttering assent or disagreement, either with the sentiments expressed or the people expressing them.

But as soon as Margoz mentioned Jaina Proudmoore -- worse, mentioned her in a disparaging manner -- the place got quiet.

Too quiet. In the three years Erik had been a tavern owner, he learned that there were two times when you expected a fight to break out: when the place got too loud, and when it got too quiet. And the latter times usually brought on the really nasty fights.

Another soldier stood up next to the first one -- this one was wider in the shoulders, and he didn't talk much, but when he did, it was in a booming voice that made the demon skull behind the bar rattle on its mount. "Don't nobody talk bad 'bout Lady Proudmoore 'less he wants to be livin' without teeth."

Swallowing audibly, Margoz quickly said, "I would never dream of speaking of our leader in anything but reverent tones, good sir, I promise." He gulped down more of the corn whiskey than it was advisable to drink in one sip, which caused his eyes to greatly widen. He shook his head a few times.

"Lady Proudmoore's been very good to us," the merchant said. "After we drove back the Burning Legion, she made us into a community. Your complaints are fair, Margoz, but none of it can be laid at the lady's feet. I've met a few wizards in my day, and most of 'em aren't fit to be scrapings off my sandals. But the lady's a good one, and you'll find no support for disparagements of her."

"It was never my intent to disparage, good sir," Margoz said, still sounding a bit shaky from his ill-advised gulp of corn whiskey. "But one must wonder why no trade agreements have been made to obtain this superior wood that these fine gentlemen have mentioned." He looked thoughtful for a second. "Perhaps she has tried, but the orcs would not permit it."

The captain swallowed a gulp of his ale, then said, "Perhaps them orcs told her to leave Northwatch."

"We should leave Northwatch," the merchant said. "The Barrens are neutral territory, that was agreed to from the beginning."

The soldier stiffened. "You're crazy if you think we're givin' that up."

Margoz said, "That is where the orcs fought Admiral Proudmoore."

"Yes, an embarrassment. As fine a leader as Lady Proudmoore is, that's how much of an idiot her father was." The merchant shook his head. "That entire sordid incident should be put out of our heads. But it won't be as long as -- "

The captain interrupted. "If'n you ask me, we need to expand beyond Northwatch."

Sounding annoyed -- though whether at the interruption or the sentiment, Erik neither knew nor cared -- the merchant said, "Are you mad?"

"Are you? The orcs're squeezin' us out! They're all over the blessed continent, and we've got Theramore. It's been three year since the Burning Legion was sent off. Don't we deserve better than to be lower class in our own land -- to be confined to one cesspool of a city-state?"

"Theramore is as fine a city as you will see in human lands." The soldier spoke the words with a defensive pride, only to continue in a more resigned tone. "But it is true that the orcs have greater territory. That is why Northwatch is essential -- it allows us to maintain a defense beyond the walls of Theramore."

"Besides," the first mate said with a laugh into his ale mug, "the orcs don't like us there. That's reason enough to keep it, y'ask m...