Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

7

It was Ol’ Durty Pete’s turn to keep watch in Corporal Teegan’s Expedition encampment, located on the edge of the mysterious jungle Overgrowth, which had seemingly sprung up overnight. Despite his fondness for a “mug o’ th’ brew” on, well, nearly an hourly basis, the white-bearded dwarf knew enough to take his assignments seriously. He hadn’t had anything to drink since nightfall, and it was nearly dawn.

He patted his blunderbuss—which he loved, even if it was becoming a bit erratic these days (unkind folks said it was Ol’ Durty Pete who was erratic, not his gun)—and sighed. Soon his watch would be over, and he could open up that cherry grog he’d been saving for—

There was a rustle in the undergrowth. The old dwarf got to his feet with more speed than most would have given him credit for. All kinds of strange critters could be attacking. Raptors, plainstriders, those big nasty flower- or moss-things—

A woman, wearing a tabard that sported a golden anchor, stumbled forward, stared at him a moment, and then collapsed. Pete barely caught her as she fell.

“Teegan!” roared Pete. “We got oursels a problem!”

A few seconds later, one of the guards was attempting to bandage the young scout’s injuries, but Pete thought sadly that it was pretty clear the little missy wasn’t going to pull through. She reached out frantically, grabbing on to Hannah Bridgewater’s arm as Hannah bent over her.

“H-Horde,” the scout rasped. “T-tauren. Opened the gate. Heading east. Think… Northwatch…”

Her eyes closed, and her black hair, matted with blood, fell back limply against Pete’s broad chest. He patted her shoulder awkwardly.

“Ye got yer message through, lass,” he said. “Ye done good. Take yer rest, noo.”

Teegan hurrying up in response to Pete’s call, shot the dwarf an angry look. “She’s dead, you idiot.”

Gently, Pete replied, “I know, laddie. I know.”

Two minutes later, the fastest one among them, Hannah, was running as quickly as her long, strong legs would carry her, east to Northwatch, praying to the Light that she wouldn’t be too late.

Admiral Tarlen Aubrey was, as usual, awake before dawn. He rose swiftly, splashed water on his face, dressed, and shaved. As he met his own eyes in the mirror, he saw that they had circles underneath them and frowned as he carefully shaped the beard and mustache that were his only concessions to physical vanity. Over the last few days, the Rageroar clan of orcs had appeared to be regrouping—what was left of them. Skirmishes had broken out, during which it had been reported that a few of the orcs had shouted insults along the lines that the Alliance would get what was coming to it, or had grunted defiant comments as they died, such as, “My death will be avenged.”

Nothing out of the ordinary, not really. Confidence and arrogance marked almost every orc, in Aubrey’s experience, and the Rageroar in particular. And yet, he had not gotten to his position without being alert to all possible dangers. It was odd that the Rageroar had come back after being defeated, and he needed to know why. He had sent out spies to confirm if the Horde was beginning to move toward war, and especially if its sights were on Northwatch Hold. None had reported in yet; it was too early.

Aubrey broke his fast with a banana and some strong tea and headed to his usual patrol route. He nodded a greeting to Signal Officer Nathan Blaine, who saluted smartly despite the early hour, and together the two men looked out over the sea. Dawn was full-on, and the ocean and dock were painted in shades of rose, scarlet, and crimson, the clouds hovering above limned faintly with gold here and there.

“‘Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning,’” Aubrey mused as he sipped his tea.

“‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,’” Blaine finished. “But we’re not sailing today, sir.” He gave the admiral a lopsided but still respectful grin.

“True enough,” said Aubrey, “but we are always sailors. Keep an eye out, Nathan.” The admiral’s eyes narrowed a bit. “There’s something…”

He pursed his lips, shaking his head, then turned and descended the tower quickly. He left the sentence unfinished.

“A tad superstitious, isn’t he noo?” said a dwarven guard to Blaine.

“Perhaps,” said Nathan, turning back to the bay. “But I bet you still always step onto a ship with your right foot first, don’t you?”

“Um,” said the dwarf, his cheeks flushing a bit red, “aye. No sense in invitin’ bad luck, noo, is there?”

Nathan grinned.

They were a sea of green and brown moving steadily down the Gold Road through the Northern Barrens toward Ratchet. Most of the orcs were on foot, though a few of the elite—including the Kor’kron, Malkorok, and the warchief himself—rode wolves. Some were mounted on kodos, the better to manage the drums of war that were sending a trembling pounding through the very earth itself.

Word had gone ahead, of course, so that at each town more could gather and join the march on Northwatch. Those who would not participate in the active battle, and they were few—the elderly, the very young, the mothers of suckling babes—nonetheless ran out to cheer Garrosh and his unquestioned victory.

Garrosh, tall and proud on his black-furred, muscular wolf, raised Gorehowl in response to the cheers but seldom dismounted. The pace of the march enabled the army to be seen from far enough away for the warriors, magi, healers, and shaman to fall in step without slowing down the river of Horde that flowed along the road. As they left the Crossroads, where their numbers had swelled, Malkorok brought his mount alongside Garrosh’s. He thumped his chest in a salute, and Garrosh nodded acknowledgment.

“Any word?” Garrosh asked.

“It seems that Baine is indeed loyal to us, for the present,” said Malkorok. “He and the trolls slew the Alliance scouts that hovered at the Great Gate and now march east to Northwatch, as they said they would.”

Garrosh turned to Malkorok. “I commend you for your watchfulness, Malkorok,” he said. “Surely now you see that I hold Baine in the palm of my hand. He is devoted to his people and would not risk them. He knows that I suffer no such hesitation when it comes to the tauren. His protectiveness of them is a trait to both admire and hold in contempt. And,” he added, “to use.”

“Even so… he spoke out so brazenly,” Malkorok growled.

“Indeed,” said Garrosh. “But he comes through when he is needed. As do Vol’jin, and Lor’themar, and Sylvanas.”

“And Gallywix.”

Garrosh made a face. “He is out only for profit and is as subtle as a charging kodo about it. As long as the Horde lines his purse, he will be loyal.”

“Would that all our allies were so transparent.”

“Leave Baine be, for now,” said Garrosh.

“This is the task you set me to, great warchief,” said Malkorok. “To root out those who would defy your leadership and thus become traitors to the glorious Horde.”

“But if we are too suspicious of our allies, their patience will grow thin,” retorted Garrosh. “No, Malkorok. The time is now to fight the Alliance, not each other. And what a fight it will be!”

“And if Baine or Vol’jin, or others, do plot against you?”

“If you have proof rather than irritated words, then, as always, you have free rein. Which I know well you have already exercised.”

Malkorok’s gray lips curved in a smile that was as malevolent as it was ugly.

The ships—Forsaken, blood elf, goblin—had come early to Ratchet, and Garrosh could barely contain his excitement at the sight. Ratchet’s harbor was crowded with them, and Garrosh’s hot anticipation of the certain bloodbath to come was quelled slightly as he realized that it would take some time to unload all the troops and supplies he had requested. This was the part of being warchief that he found tiresome, but it couldn’t be helped.

The arrival of the orcs did not go unnoticed despite the activity in the harbor, and cheers went up. Garrosh waved and dismounted as three figures approached. One he knew—the corpulent and sly trade prince Gallywix. The others, a blood elf and a Forsaken, he did not, and he frowned.

“Warchief Garrosh!” said Gallywix enthusiastically, his piggy eyes bright and his arms outstretched in welcome. By the ancestors, Garrosh thought with a stab of repugnance, did the goblin think to embrace him?

He forestalled the gesture by turning to the blood elf. She had golden hair and pale skin, and wore the bright, gleaming armor that marked her as one of her people’s paladins. “Where is Lor’themar?” Garrosh asked bluntly.

Her full lips pressed together in irritation, but when she spoke, her voice was calm and pleasant. “He has sent me to oversee the blood elf troops. My name is Kelantir Bloodblade. I trained with the lady Liadrin, and I serve under Ranger-General Halduron Bright-wing.”

“Neither of whom is here,” said Malkorok, stepping protectively near Garrosh. “Instead we have this little third-ranking whelp.”

Kelantir turned coolly to Malkorok. “You also have two ships filled with blood elves willing to fight and die for the Horde,” she said. “Unless you are so sufficient in numbers and supplies that our feeble support will not be necessary.”

Garrosh had never much cared for blood elves, and this female was getting under his skin. “You have a chance to prove your people’s worth in battle today,” he said. “Take care you do not squander it.”

“My people are familiar with war and battles and sacrifice, Warchief Garrosh,” snapped Kelantir. “You will not find us lacking.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched back to the docks, her plate mail—how can she even bear it on such a tiny, twig-fragile frame? Garrosh wondered—clanking slightly as she strode.

“Warchief—” interjected Gallywix, but Malkorok silenced the loquacious goblin with a single glance. Garrosh directed his attention to the Forsaken, who, in contrast to the arrogance displayed by the blood elf, bowed almost obsequiously low. He was a warrior of sorts, if the blade sheathed at his bony hip was any indication. He had no hair—it apparently had rotted off by this point—and his skin was the pale green color of decay.

“Captain Frandis Farley, sir, commanding the Forsaken units in the name of Sylvanas Windrunner, in service to the Horde and your good self,” he said in a rasping, deep voice. While his jaw moved properly to form the words, once he had stopped speaking, it seemed to drop into a permanently gaping expression.

“And where is your Dark Lady?” asked Garrosh.

Farley lifted his head, and his eyes gleamed with yellow light. “Why,” he said, sounding surprised, “holding reserves and standing ready to command when, after your inevitable victory, the Horde marches on Theramore.”

The response was audacious and cunning, and Garrosh threw back his head and laughed. “Perhaps we should send you in to simply talk to the lady Jaina, and she will voluntarily surrender completely.”

“My warchief flatters me. But that would deprive the Horde of a well-earned victory, would it not?”

“Fight as skillfully as you speak today, Frandis Farley, and your warchief will be well pleased.”

“I shall endeavor to do so.” Some foul substance gathered at one corner of the slack jaw and dripped to the hard-baked earth. “Now, with your permission, I will see to unloading the cargo my lady has sent.”

Pleased with the banter, though still irritated at both Sylvanas and Lor’themar for sending underlings instead of coming themselves, Garrosh finally turned to Gallywix. The goblin had dropped his eager-to-please mask and chomped sullenly on his cigar, the top hat slipping over his low brow.

“You, Trade Prince, seem to be the only one who has come to Ratchet to lead your people into battle. I will remember this.”

The mask slipped back into place immediately. “Well, I am not so much leading my people into battle as overseeing getting them here and settled, and making sure the supplies you requested were properly delivered, if you understand my—”

Garrosh absently patted Gallywix’s top hat and walked down to the dock to get a better view of the ships and cargo.

At first, it would seem a strange choice. Other than warm bodies to physically fight in the battle ahead, the ships were filled not with swords or bows or armor, but with carefully stacked timbers, securely tied with ropes into tidy bundles, and carts bearing rocks.

But Garrosh nodded his approval. He sighed, forcing down his impatience, and indicated that some of the larger, more physically powerful orcs should give the slender blood elves and the—in some cases quite literally—skin-and-bones Forsaken some assistance in unloading the cargo.

Soon—perhaps within hours—Northwatch Hold would fall.

Victory was, after all, the Horde’s destiny.

When Hannah Bridgewater, her clothes soaked with sweat and her legs trembling with exhaustion, was stopped by one of the Northwatch guards patrolling the western path, her message was relayed immediately to Admiral Aubrey. He swore, a single, harsh word, then recovered. To the guard who had brought him the news, he said, “Notify everyone to prepare for battle. The tauren and trolls are approaching from the west. Shore up our defenses there and—”

“Sir!” yelped Blaine. He stood, his eyes fixed on the signaler on the dock below, who was frantically waving the semaphore flags. “Horde ships are approaching from Ratchet—six of them! Fully armed battleships!”

“Six?”

“Aye, sir.” Blaine strained for more information. “They appear to have the markings of—of goblin, Forsaken, and blood elf!”

Aubrey didn’t reply. Trolls and tauren first, and now the Forsaken, the sin’dorei, and the goblins. The only ones missing were—

“Orcs,” he snapped. “Tell Dockmaster Lewis to send some scouts to Ratchet. They’ll have to dodge the remnants of the Rageroar, but they’re used to that.” He should have known the instant he heard the word “tauren” that they would not come alone. The tauren army pressed forward in an attack before, not after the late general Hawthorne had ensured that the civilians of Camp Taurajo would be allowed to leave unharmed. It wasn’t like them.

He should have known the real threat would come from the north. From Orgrimmar.

As for the battleships of the other Horde races… “Tell cannoneers Whessan and Smythe to fire at will as soon as those ships are within range. We’ll need to keep their troops from landing.”

“Aye, sir.”

Aubrey’s mind was racing. How would the orcs manage it? The tauren and trolls approached by land, yes. The other races, by sea, yes. But there was no way that hundreds of orcs would be able to charge Northwatch Hold en masse directly from the north. The Rageroar orcs had been a thorn in his side but they had never been able to bring in many reinforcements. Their strongholds were merely small jutting islands between the hold and Ratchet. An army could never possibly—

He felt the sound before he heard it. It was not cannon fire; Light knew they had grown used to hearing that over the last few months. No, this was different… a deep trembling of the earth. For a second, Aubrey and most of the others, still raw from the tumult during the Cataclysm, thought it was another earthquake. But it was too regular, too… rhythmic…

Drums. Drums of war.

He reached for the spyglass hanging at his hip, hastened to the wall of the tower, and looked to the north. Until this moment, the Rageroar stragglers had been glimpsed milling about near the base of the hold, sometimes even attacking the Northwatch guards in reckless, usually fatal charges. Now there was no sign of them.

“Belay that order to send scouts!” he shouted to Blaine. “The Rageroar have returned because they’ve joined with the Horde orcs. They’ll be—”

The words died in his throat. He could see them now, cresting the hill—a great wave of orcs clad in everything from the cloth robes of their shaman and warlocks to mismatched pieces of leather to imposing plate mail. They lugged carts of wooden planks and boulders. The Rageroar had joined them, obviously expected, and the great green brutes heaved and tossed the boulders into the shallow waters with enormous splashes and roars. The infernal drums kept pounding, pounding, and the enemy was close enough so that Aubrey and the others could hear war chants being sung in Orcish. Behind the orcs were catapults, battering rams, other massive engines of war. But how could they possibly think—

It was when the orcs began laying the planks over the stones that Aubrey realized the insidious cleverness of the tactic.

“Shore up the gates!” he shouted. What little there is left of them, he thought. “Prepare for attacks on three fronts—from the harbor, from the north, and from the west!”

They’d been able to handle the Rageroar. They’d been able to handle the few tauren skirmishes that erupted from time to time on the Fields of Blood.

But this…

“Light preserve us,” he whispered.