Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

2

Baine Bloodhoof looked about uneasily as he and a small retinue entered the city of Orgrimmar. The sole progeny of the late, much beloved and mourned tauren high chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof, Baine had only recently stepped into the position his father had occupied for so many years. It was a responsibility he had never actively sought, and he had accepted the duty with both humility and regret at the time of his father’s death. Since then, the world had changed in every respect.

His personal world had shattered the night of his father’s murder. Cairne had been slain in a mak’gora, a ritual duel, by Garrosh Hellscream. Garrosh, who had recently been named warchief of the Horde by Thrall, had intended to fight honorably, but someone else did not wish him to. Magatha Grimtotem, a shaman who had long harbored a hatred of Cairne and a desire to lead the tauren, had painted Garrosh’s axe, Gorehowl, with poison rather than simple anointing oil. And so the noble Cairne had died by betrayal.

Garrosh had stayed out of the ensuing conflict that arose when Magatha made a blatant bid for conquest of the tauren. Baine had defeated the would-be usurper, banishing her and those who refused to swear loyalty to him. Afterward, he had vowed his own loyalty to Garrosh in the orc’s role as warchief for a reason that was twofold—because his father would have wished it, and because Baine knew he had to do so in order to keep his people safe.

Since then, Baine Bloodhoof had not come to Orgrimmar. He had no desire to. Now he wished even more heartily that he could have stayed away.

But Garrosh had sent a summons to all the leaders of the various Horde races, and Baine, having pledged his support to Grom Hellscream’s son, had come. So had the others. To disobey would be to risk open war.

Baine and his entourage rode their kodos through the massive gates. More than one tauren stared, ears flicking, at the towering scaffolding and the massive crane that moved above them. While Orgrimmar had never been as pastoral as Thunder Bluff, it was now actively martial. Looming iron construction, heavy and black and ominous, had replaced the simple wooden huts, “to prevent another fire,” Garrosh had said. And, Baine knew, to evoke the so-called glory days of the Horde. To remind everyone after the chaos of the Cataclysm and the subsequent terrorizing of Deathwing that the orcs, and by extension the Horde itself, were not to be trifled with. To Baine, the ugly changes did not represent strength. The “new Orgrimmar” represented domination. Conquest. Subjugation. Its hard, jagged metal was a threat, not a comfort. He did not feel safe here. He did not think anyone who was not an orc could feel safe here.

Garrosh had even moved Grommash Hold from the Valley of Wisdom, where it had been under Thrall since the founding of the city, to the Valley of Strength—a decision, Baine thought, that reflected the nature of each warchief. As the tauren approached the hold, they were joined by a cluster of blood elves in their red and gold regalia. Lor’themar Theron, his long, pale blond hair in a topknot and his chin decorated with a small patch of beard, caught Baine’s eye and nodded coolly. Baine returned the gesture.

“Friend Baine!” called an unctuously cheerful voice. Baine looked over to his right, then down. A sly-looking, obese goblin with a slightly battered top hat chomped a cigar and waved boisterously at him.

“You must be Trade Prince Jastor Gallywix,” Baine said.

“That I am, that I am indeed,” said the goblin with enthusiasm, giving him a toothy, somewhat predatory grin. “And delighted to be here today, as I am sure you are. My first official visit to Warchief Garrosh’s court!”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a court,” Baine said.

“Close enough, close enough. Delighted, yes. How are you all doing in Mulgore?”

Baine regarded the goblin. He did not dislike goblins on principle, as some did. Indeed, he owed a great debt to Gazlowe, the goblin leader of the port town of Ratchet. Gazlowe had been of tremendous help to Baine during Magatha’s attack on Thunder Bluff, providing zeppelins, weaponry, and warriors of a sort for (by goblin standards) a paltry fee. Baine simply did not particularly care for this goblin. Nor, his sources told him, did anyone. Not even Gallywix’s own people.

“We are rebuilding our capital and fighting back the quilboar who are encroaching on our territory. The Alliance recently destroyed Camp Taurajo. We have erected the Great Gate so that they will come no farther,” Baine said.

“Oh, well, sorry and congratulations, then!” Gallywix laughed. “Good luck with all that, eh?”

“Er… thank you,” Baine said. Despite their small size, the goblins threaded their way through the flow of other Horde races to be first to enter Grommash Hold. Baine flicked an ear, sighed, dismounted from his kodo, handed the reins over to a waiting orc, and entered the hold himself.

This incarnation of the hold was, like everything else in the “new” Orgrimmar, more impersonal and martial—even the throne of the warchief of the Horde. Under Thrall’s leadership, the skull and armor of the demon Mannoroth—whose blood had once corrupted the orcs and who was valiantly slain by Grom Hellscream—had been displayed on a massive tree trunk at the entrance to the hold. Garrosh had taken the symbols of his father’s greatest victory and adorned his own throne with them, taking what Thrall had erected for the entire Horde to see and making them instead a personal tribute. He even wore part of the demon’s tusks as shoulder armor. Every time he saw Garrosh, Baine’s ears flattened slightly at the affront.

“Baine,” said a gruff voice. Baine turned and felt the first surge of pleasure he had experienced since departing Thunder Bluff.

“Eitrigg,” he said warmly, embracing the elderly orc. It seemed this honorable old veteran was the last who remained here of Thrall’s original advisors. Eitrigg had served Thrall well and loyally, and had stayed behind at Thrall’s request to advise Garrosh. It gave Baine hope that Garrosh had not concocted some reason to dismiss Eitrigg. It had been Eitrigg who had first noticed the smear of poison on Garrosh’s weapon, Gorehowl, and who had told the young warchief that he had been tricked into slaying Cairne dishonorably. Baine had always respected Eitrigg, but that deed in particular had made Baine the orc’s steadfast friend.

Baine narrowed his brown eyes at Eitrigg’s expression. Keeping his voice as soft as possible—not an easy task for a tauren—he asked, “I take it you do not approve of the topic of today’s gathering?”

Eitrigg made a sour face. “That is a pale statement. And I am not alone in my thoughts.” He clapped the young leader on his arm, then stepped back, indicating that Baine should proceed to his people’s traditional place on the left of the warchief’s throne. At least Garrosh had made no effort to demote the tauren. Baine noted that Lor’themar was now on the right side of Garrosh, and next to the blood elves’ sea of gold and red was the green skin of the goblins. Sylvanas and her Forsaken were directly opposite the orc, and Vol’jin and his trolls sat next to Baine. The orcs given the honor of being present—most of them Kor’kron, the formal guardians of the warchief—stood at attention, ringing the entire gathering.

Baine recalled his father telling him of similar meetings in Orgrimmar. At those gatherings, there were feasts, laughter, and revelry as well as debate and discussion. Baine saw no signs that anything resembling a feast had been prepared. Indeed, he thought as he took a tepid swig from the waterskin that hung at his belt, it had been a good thing that he and his people had brought their own water. Otherwise, in this desert city that baked under the sun, the iron buildings absorbing the heat, the tauren would even now be collapsing.

The moments crawled by, and the gathered leaders and their companions began to grow restless. Low murmuring broke out among the Forsaken. It seemed to Baine that despite the undead’s frequent, chiding usage of the word, “patience” was not a universal discipline among them. His sharp tauren ears caught a sibilant whisper from Sylvanas, and the muttering subsided.

An orc clad in Kor’kron livery stepped forward. One hand had only three fingers, and a livid scar, pale against the darker hue of his skin, zigzagged across his face and down his throat. Red war paint, looking like streaked blood, adorned face and arms. But it was not these distinctions that made Baine’s eyes narrow at the newcomer. It was the tone of the orc’s scarlet-decorated skin.

Dark gray.

That meant two things. One, that the orc was a member of the Blackrock clan—a clan that had birthed many infamous members. And two, that he had spent years never seeing the light of day; he had dwelt inside Blackrock Mountain, serving Thrall’s enemy.

Names, imparted in dire tones by his father, Cairne, filled Baine’s head. Blackhand the Destroyer, warchief of the Horde and secret member of the Shadow Council, who had offered shaman up to become the first warlocks his people had ever known. That orc’s son Dal’rend, nicknamed “Rend,” had skulked for years in the depths of Blackrock Spire and opposed Thrall’s leadership. There had only been a handful of Blackrock orcs whom Thrall had spoken of with respect. A handful, out of far too many. That this obviously seasoned veteran had the honor of opening the ceremonies—even ahead of the Kor’kron—made Baine uneasy about what was to come.

The veteran gestured imperiously. Several green-skinned orcs stepped forward. They held long, ornately decorated chimaera horns. With precise movements, they lifted the horns to their lips, filled their lungs, and blew. A long, deep, hollow sound reverberated through the chamber, and despite the current situation, Baine felt his spirit respond to the call to order. When the horns’ blast had faded, the orcs who had blown them stepped back into the shadows.

The Blackrock orc spoke. His voice was deep and gravelly, and it carried throughout the chamber.

“Your leader, the mighty Garrosh Hellscream, approaches! Show him all honor!” The orc thumped his intact hand across his massive chest, turning to face the entrance to Grommash Hold.

Garrosh’s brown body was covered with tattoos. Even his lower jaw had been tattooed black. Bare-chested, the orc wore Mannoroth’s mammoth tusks, covered with spikes, on his shoulders. His waist was encircled with a belt that bore a carved skull—evocative of that of the great demon that adorned the throne. He clutched Gorehowl, the legendary weapon of his father, and lifted it high. Shouting and cheers filled the huge chamber, and for a moment, Garrosh stood, drinking it in. Then he lowered the axe and spoke.

“I bid you all welcome,” he said, spreading his arms in an encompassing gesture. “You are true servants of the Horde. Your warchief calls you, and you come.”

Like trained wolves, Baine thought, trying and failing to hide a frown. Thrall had never spoken so to his people.

Garrosh continued. “Much has transpired since I assumed the mantle of warchief. We have faced trials and danger, threats to our world and our way of life. And yet, we persevere. We are the Horde. We will not let anything break our spirits!”

He lifted Gorehowl again, and in response the gathered orcs uttered a great cry. The rest of the Horde joined in, Baine included, for this was in support of the mighty Horde to which they all belonged. Garrosh spoke this much truth: those who called themselves Horde would never let their spirits be beaten down—not by a shattered world, not by an insane former Aspect, not by anything.

Not even by a father’s murder.

Garrosh smiled around his tusks, nodding approvingly as he made his way to his throne, then raised his arms and called for silence. “You do not disappoint me,” he said. “You are the finest representatives of your races—the leaders, the generals. And that is why I called you here.”

He settled himself in his throne, waving to indicate that the assembled crowd, too, could sit. “There is a menace that has been present for too long, which we must now root out without mercy. A threat that has challenged us for years, to which we have, until recently, turned a blind eye in the mistaken notion that tolerance of a little shame will do no harm to the mighty Horde. I have said and say again, any shame is a great shame! Any injury is a great injury! And we will endure it no longer!”

A chill crept over Baine. He thought of Eitrigg’s reaction to his earlier inquiry. Baine had half-suspected what Garrosh wished to say when the order was given for the Horde leaders to congregate. He had hoped he was wrong.

The orc continued. “We have a destiny to fulfill. And there is an obstacle to that destiny—one that we must crush beneath our feet like the insignificant insect it truly is. For far too long—nay, even a moment would be too long!—the Alliance pests, not content with their stranglehold over the Eastern Kingdoms, have wormed their ways into our lands, our territory. Into Kalimdor.”

Baine closed his eyes briefly, pained.

“Chipping away at our resources and sullying the very earth with their presence! They are crippling us, preventing us from growing, from reaching the heights that I know—I know—we are capable of achieving! For I believe in my heart that it is not our fate to bow and scrape and sue for peace before the Alliance. It is our right to dominate and control this land of Kalimdor. It is ours, and we will claim it as such!”

Garrosh’s orcs roared in approval. Most of them, anyway—those who stood with the Kor’kron and the Blackrock orc. Some murmured quietly to themselves. Many Horde members followed the Kor’kron’s example, some bellowing with the same enthusiasm; others, Baine noted, with far less gusto. Baine himself remained seated. A very few of his own tauren applauded and stamped their hooves on the earth. The tauren had not been untouched by the recent changes. The Alliance, expanding from Northwatch Hold under false information that the tauren were planning an attack, had razed Camp Taurajo. The only residents it now had were looters. Many tauren died in the battle; others fled to Vendetta Point, where they sporadically attacked Northwatch Hold scouts, or to Camp Una’fe—the “Camp of Refuge.”

In response to the aggression, Baine did what he felt was best to keep his people safe. The road to Mulgore had once been open; now what had been dubbed the Great Gate shut out any possibility of a massive Alliance incursion. Most tauren were content with the erection of the gate and did not burn for revenge. Others were still aching from the attack. He could not condemn these people. Baine did not rule with a tight grasp; the tauren followed him willingly and with love—perhaps mostly out of respect for his father, but with openness in their hearts nonetheless. Those who disagreed with Baine’s decisions, like many Grimtotem, or the tauren who chose to strike back at the Alliance from Vendetta Point, were expelled from Thunder Bluff but otherwise suffered no repercussions.

He returned his thoughts to the present as the cheering died down and Garrosh resumed.

“To that end, it is my intent to lead the Horde on a mission that will restore us to our rightful path.” He paused, looking over the sea of faces, drawing out the moment. “Our first target will be Northwatch Hold. We will raze it. And once we have reclaimed that land as ours, we will move on to the next step—Theramore!”

Baine did not recall getting to his hooves, but suddenly he was standing. He was not alone. There was cheering, of course, but hard on its heels were cries of protest.

“Warchief! The lady Jaina is too powerful!” came a voice. It sounded like a Forsaken. “She has been passive and quiet. Rouse her, and we will have war on our hands—a war we are not prepared to fight!”

“She has behaved with fairness time and again, when she could have responded with force or deceit!” Baine shouted. “Her diplomatic efforts and her decision to work with Warchief Thrall have saved countless lives! To storm her realm with no provocation does not give honor to the Horde, and it is foolish besides!”

There were many murmurs of agreement. Other Alliance leaders were far less favored, and the lady Jaina had those who respected her among the Horde. Baine was heartened to hear the murmurs, but Garrosh’s next words plunged the tauren back into despair.

“First,” Garrosh snapped, “Thrall has given leadership of the Horde to me. Whatever he did or did not do means nothing now. I am the warchief, to whom you have all sworn loyalty. My decisions are what matter. And those of you who condemn my plan do not even know what it entails. Be silent and listen!”

The muttering died down, but not all of those who had risen took their seats.

“You respond to this as if the conquest of Theramore were the goal. I tell you now, it is only the beginning! I do not speak solely of destroying the human foothold in Kalimdor. I speak also, and even more vigorously, of the night elves. Let them flee to the Eastern Kingdoms as we crush their cities and take their resources!”

“Drive dem all out?” said Vol’jin, baffled. “Dey been here longer dan we have. An’ we try something like dat, da Alliance be over us like bees on da honey! You just be giving dem de excuse dey been looking for!”

Garrosh turned slowly to the leader of the Darkspear trolls. Inwardly, Baine winced. Vol’jin had been among the most outspoken of Garrosh’s critics after the death of Cairne. There was little love lost between the troll and orc leaders. Garrosh had forced the Darkspears into Orgrimmar’s slums. Outraged at the insult, Vol’jin had ordered the trolls to leave Orgrimmar altogether. Now, the Darkspear leader came to the city only when summoned.

“My soul is sick of the back-and-forth in Ashenvale that has gone on nearly since we set foot in this world,” growled Garrosh. Baine knew the orc was still smarting from the latest defeat there at the hands of Varian Wrynn. “And I am even more sickened by our own blindness to what we should and must do. The night elves claim compassion and wisdom, yet they murder us when we harvest a few trees that would provide life-giving shelter! The night elves have lived here long enough. Let them now linger only as a bad memory. It is the Horde’s hour to reign on this continent, and reign we shall! This is why Theramore is key, do you not understand?” Garrosh stared at the Horde members as if they were small children. “We crush Theramore, we stop the potential of Alliance reinforcements from the south. And then—we give the night elves their due.”

“Warchief!” The voice was female, at once both musical and cold. Sylvanas Windrunner, former high elf ranger-general and now the leader of the Forsaken, rose and gazed at Garrosh with intense glowing eyes. “The Alliance may indeed not send reinforcements. Not at once, at least. They will turn and vent their wrath instead upon those of us in the Eastern Kingdoms—my people and the sin’dorei.”

She looked at Lor’themar almost imploringly. The blood elf leader’s face remained impassive. “Varian will march on my borders and destroy us!” The comment was addressed to Garrosh, but she continued to stare at Lor’themar. Baine felt for her; she was hoping for support from one who might reasonably be expected to give it, and finding none.

“Warchief! A word?” It was Eitrigg, turning with the respect he owed to his leader.

“I have heard from you already, my advisor,” said Garrosh.

“We have not,” Baine stated. “Eitrigg was friend to my father and advisor to Thrall. He knows the Alliance in a way few do. Surely you do not object to the rest of us hearing what such a wise elder has to say?”

The look that Garrosh shot Baine could have melted stone. The tauren met the gaze with deceptive placidness. Nonetheless, the orc nodded to Eitrigg. “You may speak,” he said curtly.

“It is true that the Horde has done much to recover from the Cataclysm,” Eitrigg began. “And it has been under your leadership, Warchief Garrosh. You are right. Yours is the title. Yours are the decisions. But yours also is the responsibility. Think for a moment about the consequences of this choice.”

“The night elves will be gone; the Alliance will be afraid to attack; and Kalimdor will belong to the Horde. Those will be the consequences, elder.” Garrosh uttered the word not with respect, but almost with contempt. Baine noticed that two or three orcs frowned at the warchief’s tone of voice and were listening intently to Eitrigg.

Eitrigg shook his head. “No,” he said. “That is a hope. You hope to begin claiming this continent as ours. And you might. You would also begin a war that would involve armies from all over this world, Horde and Alliance, locked in a combat that would take lives and drain resources. Have we not suffered through enough of those costs?” The orcs who had been paying close attention now started nodding. Baine recognized one of them as a shopkeeper here in Orgrimmar. Another, surprisingly, was one of the guards, though not a member of the elite Kor’kron.

“Costs?” said a slightly screechy voice. “I hadn’t heard Warchief Garrosh mention costs, friend Eitrigg.” It was, of course, Trade Prince Gallywix. He was standing—not that anyone could tell. The crown of his top hat was all that could be seen of him, but it bobbed up and down animatedly with his speech. “What I hear is talk of profit for everyone. Why not expand, taking the resources of our enemies and driving them away at the same time? Even war is good business if you go about it properly!”

Baine had had enough. The greedy, self-absorbed goblin’s quip about the blood of heroes and foes alike being spilled for profit pushed Baine’s anger past prudent silence.

“Garrosh!” he said. “There is none here who can say that I do not love the Horde. Nor any who can say that I do not honor your title.”

Garrosh did not speak. He well knew that he had not come to Baine’s aid when it was needed, and yet the tauren still had acknowledged him as warchief. Baine had even saved Garrosh’s life once. The orc made no attempt to silence Baine… yet.

“I know this lady. You do not. She has worked tirelessly for peace, knowing well that we are not monsters but people—like the people who compose the Alliance.” His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, and any rabble-rousers who might have been tempted to protest his labeling humans, night elves, dwarves, draenei, worgen, and gnomes as “people” wisely held their tongues. “I have received aid and shelter in her home. She helped me when even members of the Horde would not. She does not deserve this treachery, this—”

“Baine Bloodhoof!” snarled Garrosh, closing the distance between himself and the tauren high chieftain in a few strides. Baine towered over him, but Garrosh was not cowed. “If you do not wish to share your father’s fate, I would advise you to watch what you say!”

“You mean dying betrayed?” Baine shot back.

Garrosh roared. Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem stepped forward at the same time as Eitrigg. But another interposed himself between Baine and Garrosh—the Blackrock orc. He did not touch Baine, but the tauren could almost feel the fire of the other’s banked rage churning. The gray-skinned orc’s eyes glittered, their coldness not tempering the heat of his anger but rather augmenting it. And Baine felt a prickle of unease. Who was this orc?

“Malkorok,” said Garrosh. “Step down.”

For what seemed an eternity, the Blackrock orc did not move. Baine had no desire for a confrontation—not here, not now. Attacking Garrosh, or this gray-skinned warrior who was clearly appointed specifically to defend him, would only further aggravate the young warchief and make him even more disinclined to listen to reason. At last, expelling air from his nostrils in a snort of contempt, Malkorok did as he was told.

Garrosh moved forward, shoving his face up toward Baine’s.

“This is not a time for peace! The time for war has come—it is long overdue! Your own people have suffered from the expansion of the Alliance into your territory, unprovoked. If anyone should wish to destroy at the very least Northwatch Hold, it should be the tauren! You say that Jaina Proudmoore assisted you once. Are your loyalties now to her and the Alliance, who have killed your people… or to the mighty Horde and me?”

Baine took a long, slow breath and let it out through his nostrils. He bent his head to within an inch of Garrosh’s and said, for that orc’s ears only, “If I were ever to turn my back on the Horde and you, it would have been before this moment, Garrosh Hellscream. If you believe nothing else I say, believe that.”

For a heartbeat, it seemed to Baine that an expression of shame crossed Garrosh’s brown face. Then the scowl returned. Garrosh turned again to address the gathered crowd.

“This is the will of your warchief,” he said bluntly. “This is the plan. First Northwatch Hold, then Theramore, then we drive the night elves before us and take for our own what was theirs. As for any Alliance protests,” he said, sparing a brief glance for Sylvanas, “rest assured, they will be dealt with swiftly. I am grateful for your obedience in these matters, but I expected nothing less from the great Horde. Return now to your homes, and prepare. You will hear from me again soon. For the Horde!”

The cheer, uttered so often and always with such passion, filled the hold. Baine joined in, but his heart was not in it. Not only was Garrosh’s plan dangerously reckless, which surely should have been enough to condemn it, but it was based on treachery and hatred. The Earth Mother could never give her blessing to such an endeavor.

Garrosh waved Gorehowl above his head one final time, letting the weapon sing as the wind whistled through the holes in its blade, then lowered it. The Blackrock orc—Malkorok, Garrosh had named him—right behind Garrosh before even Eitrigg, before even the Kor’kron. The orcs encircling the gathering snapped to attention and followed their leader out of the hold.

The crowd began to disperse. Baine saw the blue-skinned, red-haired troll leader moving toward him and slowed his own steps.

“Ju baited him,” said Vol’jin without preamble.

“I did. It… was not wise.”

“No, it wasn’t. Dat why I stay quiet. Gotta tink about my people.”

“I understand.” The trolls were in more immediate peril from Garrosh’s anger, living as close to Orgrimmar as they did. Baine did not blame Vol’jin. He glanced at the troll. “But I know what your heart is telling you.”

Vol’jin sighed, looking somber, and nodded. “Dis a bad path we be walkin’ down.”

“Tell me, do you know who this Malkorok is?”

The troll scowled. “He be a Blackrock. Dey say he still don’t like da light of Durotar, after bein’ so long in Blackrock Mountain, servin’ Rend.”

“I suspected as much,” growled Baine.

“He denounced his crimes in service to Rend an’ asked for amnesty. Garrosh be givin’ it to him, along wit’ any others who swear to serve him wit’ dere lives. Now da wahchief got a nice big dog wit’ sharp teeth ta protect him.”

“But—how can he be trusted?”

Vol’jin laughed a little. “Some might say, how can da Grimtotem be trusted? Yet you let da ones who swear loyalty stay at Thunder Bluff.”

Baine thought of Tarakor, a black bull who had served under Magatha. Tarakor had led the attack against Baine but had pleaded for reprieve for himself and his family. Tarakor had proven to be as good as his word, as had all the others whom Baine had pardoned. And yet, somehow, to Baine, the Grimtotem seemed different from the Blackrocks.

“Perhaps I am inclined to prejudge,” said Baine. “I think better of the tauren than I do of orcs.”

“Dese days,” Vol’jin said quietly, making sure he was not overheard, “so do I.”

Garrosh waited outside so that those who wished to take this opportunity to swear loyalty to him could do so more conveniently. A goblin female was kneeling before him, nattering on about something, when Malkorok said, “There he is.” Garrosh looked up and spotted Lor’themar.

“Bring him.”

He interrupted the goblin, patted her head, said, “I accept your oath,” and shooed her off as Malkorok approached with the blood elf leader. Lor’themar inclined his pale blond head in a gesture of respect.

“You wish to see me, Warchief?”

“I do,” said Garrosh, steering them off a few steps so that they might speak with more privacy. Malkorok ensured they would not be disturbed by stepping in front of them and folding his massive gray arms. “Out of all the leaders, save Gallywix—who is supportive merely because he sees coins to be made—you are the only one who doesn’t question your warchief. Not even when Sylvanas tries to play upon your sympathy. I respect that, elf. Know that your loyalty to me is duly noted.”

“The Horde embraced and supported my people when no one else would,” Lor’themar replied. “I will not forget that. And so, my loyalty, and that of my people, is to the Horde.”

Unease stirred in Garrosh as he noticed a slight emphasis on Lor’themar’s last word. “I am the Horde’s warchief, Lor’themar. And as such, I am the Horde.”

“You are its warchief,” Lor’themar said, agreeing readily. “Is that all you wish of me? My people are anxious to return home and prepare for the war that is to come.”

“Of course,” Garrosh said. “You may go.”

Lor’themar had said nothing inflammatory, but the unease did not dissipate as Garrosh regarded the sea of red and gold move toward the gates of Orgrimmar.

“That one is worth watching,” he said to Malkorok.

“They are all worth watching,” the Blackrock orc replied.