Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

16

“We will be facing a battle on three fronts,” Jonathan said. He stood, pointing to the map of Theramore on the table. Everyone was standing now, the shorter dwarves craning their necks to see. “From the harbor, of course. We have a good idea of how many ships are there already.”

“And if I were Garrosh, I would be holding a few in reserve and then sending them off within about four hours of the battle,” added Aubrey.

Jonathan nodded. “We should plan on that. When is the Starsword due to return?”

Shortly after the arrival of the 7th fleet, Jaina had insisted that one ship, the Starsword, be dispatched to bear the civilians of the city who wished to leave to safety. All of the children went aboard, and many of their families. Others chose to stay. It was their home; they loved it as Jaina did and wanted to defend it. Ratchet would have been the first choice, and from there the ship would have traveled to Stranglethorn. Unfortunately, while the goblins who ran Ratchet were neutral considering the flood of Horde that had recently passed through that town, Ratchet was deemed far too unsafe for Alliance refugees. So instead, the Starsword had sailed for Gadgetzan.

“The draenei shaman have assured me that with the cooperation of the air and water elementals, the trip will go much more quickly,” Jaina said.

“Perhaps,” said Stoutblow. “But the ship just sailed a few hours ago. We canna hope tae see it back afore tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Children never belong in battle,” said Tiras’alan quietly. “Even if it means we do not have a battleship available, transporting them to safety was the right choice.”

“The young are indeed too precious to risk,” said Shandris. “And also… civilians only get in the way.”

It was a harsh assessment, but Jaina and all the others knew it to be true. A battle demanded everything from those who would fight it. Worrying if children might come in harm’s way was not an option. Removing them from the equation was more than the morally right thing to do—it was a necessary and intelligent thing to do.

“The road north troubles me more than the road west,” said Jonathan, bringing them all back to the subject at hand. “We have seen no buildup at Brackenwall Village.”

“Yet,” growled Rhonin.

“Yet,” said Jonathan. “But it is likely that Garrosh’s army will march through there and either gather reinforcements or leave a portion of his troops behind to send in later if they prove to be needed. It would also be a safe place to retreat and regroup—a luxury we don’t have.”

“What about the siege weapons that are currently stationed along the western road?” said Pained. “We could bring those in closer to the city and position them at both gates.”

“What about the Grimtotem?” asked Kinndy.

“I doubt we need to worry about them,” Jaina said. “We are battling the Horde now, and even if they offered their services to Garrosh, I do not believe Baine would stand for it. Or even Garrosh. Not after what Magatha did to Cairne.”

“They could try to use the distraction of battle to their advantage,” said Vereesa. “Take the opportunity to enter the city in an attempt to loot or simply kill.”

“Only if we fall,” said Pained bluntly. “They would not dare otherwise.”

“It’s settled then,” said Jonathan. “We pull back the siege engines and—”

The doors to the hall were flung open. Kalecgos stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, one hand clasped to his side. Behind him were two guards, who looked more worried about the blue dragon than the fact that he had entered the meeting room unannounced.

Jaina saw blood pooling beneath Kalec’s fingers. She rose and hurried toward him, even as he spoke quickly.

“The Horde is on the move,” he said. “They are heading south and will be here in only a few hours.” As Jaina slipped an arm around him, looking up at him worriedly, he said, more for her ears than anyone else’s, “It’s not a serious wound. I came back to warn you. To help.”

“I don’t know that any of this is a concern of the blue dragonflight,” Rhonin said. Others who did not recognize Kalecgos on sight frowned slightly as the realization struck.

Jaina first addressed Kalec, then the assembled company. “Kalec—let the guards take you to our doctor and healers before you do anything else. You can brief us when you return.” To the others, Jaina said, “We may recently have been at war with the blue dragonflight, but everyone here, including the Kirin Tor members, must know that Kalecgos has never sought to quarrel with the younger races. He was key in the defeat of Deathwing, and we are honored and frankly lucky that he is willing to help defend Theramore.”

Rhonin’s gaze flickered from Kalec to Jaina, and then he nodded. “We could use it,” was all he said, but it was enough. The other members of the Kirin Tor ceased their muttering, and even some of the generals were nodding.

“Let’s be honest,” said Redmane, chuckling. “A great blue beastie up in the sky in addition tae all o’ the rest o’ us might rattle Garrosh more than a wee bit.”

It was settled, then. Jaina turned to Kalec. His wound was obviously more serious than he wanted her to know, but there were many gifted healers stationed here in anticipation of the battle. He would soon be well enough to join the fight.

“It’s going to be all right, Jaina,” he said. He smiled gently and spoke quietly. “Don’t be afraid.”

Jaina gave him a smile of her own. “I’d be foolish not to be afraid, Kalec,” she said, speaking just as quietly. “But I’ve been through battles before, battles that were a lot… harder, personally, than this one for me to bear. Do not worry. I will protect Theramore without shying from what must be done.”

Admiration lit his blue eyes. “Forgive me,” he said. “You are perhaps more battle-hardened than I, Lady Jaina.”

Her smile ebbed a little. “I pray I will never be hardened,” she said, “but I am no stranger to it, either. Now go. We’ll fill each other in upon your return.” As one guard escorted Kalec to the priests, Jaina turned to the other. “Send a missive to Stormwind immediately. Varian must know that the attack is about to begin.”

The sense of urgency that had been present since before the arrival of the generals and the fleet was now even greater. As Jaina predicted, Kalecgos, though drained from his ordeal, was quickly healed, and he briefed everyone on what he had seen. Thanks to him, they now knew which route the Horde had chosen. Fort Triumph, which lay northwest of Theramore, had been notified as soon as Theramore had known of the planned attack. They would put up a good fight, and it was likely that the Horde would not want to waste its resources, troops, and energy attacking a site that was not its intended goal. Hopes were high that the brave men and women at Fort Triumph would be able to inflict damage and slow the approach of the Horde while not being utterly devastated themselves. It was a risk that was unavoidable.

Plans were translated nearly instantly into orders. The ballistae and other siege weaponry were moved east toward the gates of Theramore. Riders were dispatched to Sentry Point, slightly north of the city, with instructions that when the Horde was spotted, they were to send warning immediately. Captain Wymor and his soldiers were ordered to hold back the Horde if they could—and retreat to the city if they couldn’t, where others would join them.

The gates would remain closed unless the Horde beat them down. Wymor understood.

Sixteen battleships turned and sailed out of the harbor. The Starsword would likely return too late from its mission of mercy to be of any help. Like the Horde fleet, they stayed in their own waters—barely. There they waited, the plan being to destroy the Horde fleet once the battle began so that the threat would be completely removed. Three remained in the harbor, a last line of defense against encroachment from the sea. Everyone hoped they would not be necessary.

It was midday when the first rider came.

He wore no armor, only ordinary clothes spattered with mud and blood, no doubt to spare the horse upon which he galloped. Even so, the steed heaved and foamed as it clattered up to the northern gate. The guards stationed there assisted the shaking man as he all but slid off the animal, which seemed on the verge of collapse itself. As they caught him with as much gentleness as they could muster, his cloak fell aside. They realized that the blood belonged almost entirely to the dark-haired, bearded rider, who struggled to speak.

“F-Fort Triumph h-has fallen,” said the rider, and then said no more.

And so it began.

The Horde army was now augmented with blade throwers, ballistae, and catapults carved in the likeness of mighty eagles. Alliance weapons, to be used on the Alliance. Many of those who marched also bore other, more gruesome trophies to remember the battle. The trolls, in particular, seemed delighted to decorate themselves with fingers and ears.

Doubtless the poorly named Fort Triumph had thought to make a stand that would cripple the wave of Horde flowing south toward Theramore. They had grossly overestimated their own abilities and underestimated those of their enemy.

War songs were sung. The drums were beaten, and the creaking of the massive engines of war—some of Horde design, others Alliance—provided its own unique music.

The Horde had surprised Northwatch Hold and had taken it thanks to that. Now they came to their next target, proud of their numbers and their power, fairly shouting their presence as they marched southward. Theramore had had days to prepare for the attack; its residents had also had nights likely spent sleeplessly, fraught with nightmares about the Horde pouring through their gates.

Fear, too, was a weapon.

The beasts of the Barrens gave them a wide berth, and those zhevra and gazelles that ventured too close were slain to feed the hungry troops. Their numbers formed into a thinner line to navigate the narrower road through Dustwallow Marsh, and the hot sun now filtered through the tall, mossy trees. Past the ruins of the Shady Rest Inn, they halted at a crossroads with paths that led to Theramore Isle, Mudsprocket, and Brackenwall Village. Here, Garrosh divided the army in half. He would take command of the forces that would head north, to be reinforced by new recruits from the village—more orcs and even ogres, who would bear down on Theramore from the north.

Malkorok would lead the remaining troops along the road toward the east.

The two arms of attack would meet at Theramore; they would meet for victory and crush the city between them.

Malkorok and his soldiers marched deep into the heart of Dustwallow Marsh and into the Quagmire, ripping down the banners of the Alliance and grinding them into the mud with laughter. Their path, once blocked by Theramore soldiers and weapons of war, was open, as they had expected.

Nor was there sign of the Grimtotem, also expected. Word had likely spread of the approaching troops, and those cowardly tauren—despised by Alliance and Horde alike—were lying low.

“Our approach has doubtless been heralded,” said Malkorok. “I will send some runners ahead and we will proceed with—”

He was interrupted by the sound of furious growls. No fewer than ten beasts suddenly charged out of the marsh, where they had been concealed by the many rounded hillocks and low-hanging branches of trees. Two warlocks, a mage, and a shaman went down, barely able to speak two words of a spell. The rest were locked in close-quarters combat as claws shredded flesh and massive jaws crunched down on windpipes. Before the attack of the shapeshifted Alliance druids could even register, more than a dozen Horde fighters dropped stone dead in their tracks, felled by knives in the back wielded by unglimpsed foes. Other animals now rushed from the concealment of the swamp, creatures of the arctic or of the desert, which should never have known this dank climate yet were here and harrowing the Horde.

The battle had only lasted a few seconds, and already more than two dozen were dead or dying.

“Ambush! Attack!” cried Malkorok. He suited action to word, charging at a huge brown bear with painted markings ripping into an undead warlock who was frantically trying to drain the druid’s life to power his own magical abilities. The twin axes whirred, biting through the bear’s protective throat ruff at such an angle that the blades met and the druid’s head was nearly severed.

The cries of pain and rage and bloodlust were augmented by other sounds—the singing of arrows being loosed and the echoing boom of gunfire. The hunters—who were directing the spiders and scorpids, the wolves and the crocolisks and the raptors—were now entering the fight themselves. Malkorok swore beneath his breath as he leaped over the fallen bodies of a goblin and a hyena locked in a fatal embrace, the goblin’s blade in the creature’s eye and the beast’s jaws about the green throat. His eyes were on the cluster of several Horde fighting a single opponent. As Malkorok approached, shouting his battle cry, the crowd about the Alliance warrior parted for a moment. A strong night elf female was at the center. She wielded an almost blindingly radiant sword and moved so swiftly she was a blur. A long blue braid whipped around, looking almost like an azure serpent. Two slender bodies were already at her feet, and a third blood elf clutched his side and crumpled to join them.

For just an instant, she paused and her eyes locked with Malkorok’s. She saw his gray skin and grinned as, with a shout, he sprang toward her.

There was plenty of warning. This was no surprise attack. So when the runner arrived, breathless, with a solid estimate of the numbers about to descend upon first Sentry Point and then the north gate of Theramore, Captain Wymor merely nodded.

“Take your positions,” he said. Then he added, “I am proud that I am fighting with you, on this day that will be long remembered.” The guards, some of them seeming so young to him, saluted. Few of them had ever engaged in anything other than a brief skirmish with a Horde member before. Most of their fighting was with the Grimtotem or the swamp beasts. Now they could hear the drums in the distance and prepared themselves for true battle.

General Marcus Jonathan personally had come out to Sentry Point to discuss tactics. The term “Sentry Point” itself implied that it was a lookout, not a bastion of defense for Theramore. Yet it was destined to become one if Garrosh’s forces decided to approach from the north.

“And they will,” Jonathan had said. “They will attack from the north, the west, and the harbor. You cannot outfight them. You must outsmart them.”

The runner was given a gulp of water, a moment to catch her breath, then remounted her horse and galloped for Theramore. The rest of the guards under Wymor took their positions and waited.

They did not have to wait long. The lone sentry up at the top of the tower gestured, raising his right arm and bringing it down sharply. The gnome standing next to Wymor, by the name of Adolphus Blastwidget, held a small device in his hands. At the signal from the tower, Blastwidget grinned and pressed a button. The sound of drumbeats was suddenly overwhelmed by a colossal boom. Black smoke curled upward, and the Alliance soldiers cheered. When the noise died down, the drums had fallen silent.

The bombs that had been carefully planted had no doubt eliminated many of the enemy, but the threat remained.

“Draw weapons,” Wymor said. In the eerie silence, the scrape of swords being drawn sounded overly loud. The soldiers stood, taut and ready. The minutes ticked by. All that could be heard were the ceaseless hum of insects, the cry of seabirds, the wash of waves on the shore nearby, and the creaking of their own armor as they shifted uneasily.

And then came the cries of battle, chilling the blood and lifting the hair of the guards. The drums started again, closer this time, their rhythm faster, more urgent. From out of the shadows of the murky swamp, dozens, perhaps hundreds, charged, all of them screaming, all of them carrying weapons that looked as if they weighed more than an armored human.

“Run, Adolphus!” shouted Wymor to the gnome, who was standing transfixed with horror. Blastwidget started, stared wildly up at Wymor, and then took off as fast as his legs could carry him toward Theramore. He still clutched the detonator. Wymor lifted his sword and stood ready.

An orc, bristling with armor and swinging a great axe that seemed to howl with its own lust for blood, led the wave of orc, troll, tauren, Forsaken, blood elf, and goblin. He charged straight for Wymor. His shoulder armor appeared to be made of giant tusks, and between the shoulders and the gloves covering his hands was an expanse of brown, tattooed skin.

Wymor’s golden beard parted in a smile.

Garrosh Hellscream.

The blade of Wymor’s sword met the shaft of Gorehowl with a clash. Garrosh, vastly stronger than the human, shoved, and Wymor staggered back. He got his blade up just in time to parry a swift downstroke from the axe and darted beneath the warchief’s bulk, pulling the sword with him. Garrosh grunted in surprised pain as the sword sliced across his inner arm.

“My first blood in this battle,” the orc said in Common. “Well done, human. You will die with honor.”

Wymor retreated several steps, brandishing the sword. “You won’t,” he said, taunting the orc. Garrosh growled beneath his breath and charged.

Exactly as Wymor wanted him to.

“Now, Blastwidget!” shouted Wymor. He heard a roaring sound, felt himself being hurled into the air, and then knew no more.