Tides of Darkness

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"They are not coming."

Young Tharbek turned, startled by his leader's sudden pronouncement. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Doomhammer grimaced. "The rest of the Horde. They are not coming."

Tharbek looked around. "You sent them all the way down to the Great Sea," he pointed out carefully, wary of drawing his superior's wrath. "It will take them many days to return."

"They have dragons, you fool!" Doomhammer's fist lashed out, catching Tharbek across the cheek and sending the younger orc staggering back. "The dragon riders would have been here days ago to inform us of the troops' progress! Something has happened! The fleet is gone, and the bulk of our forces with it!"

Tharbek nodded, rubbing his cheek sullenly with one hand, but said nothing. He didn't have to. Doomhammer knew what his Second was thinking—if he had not sent the other clans after Gul'dan in the first place, this would not be an issue now.

Doomhammer ground his teeth together. Why was it no one else among his people understood the reasons behind his decision? He had seen the same look from every other orc these past few days, ever since he had ordered the retreat from Capital City. The gates had already been showing small cracks, and bowed with each strike of the battering ram. The city's guards had long since exhausted their oil supply and were reduced to pouring boiling water on them. The Alliance forces had been pushed back across the lake, and were being held at the bridge. They had almost won! Another day, two at the most, and the city would have cracked. And then he had sent the army away, leaving them too weak to continue here.

Nor had the Alliance been slow to capitalize on the sudden reversal. The humans had poured across the bridge immediately after the Blackhands had led their clan away, crashing through the handful of remaining orc defenders and pushing their way out onto the battlefield. The orcs had found themselves trapped between horsemen and foot soldiers on the one side and entrenched guards on the other. And they had no help in sight. It would take days or even weeks for the rest of the Horde to return, just as Tharbek had said, and that was assuming they were able to defeat Gul'dan and his warlocks and his ogres and whatever else he had conjured to aid him in his treachery. The warriors still trapped in or beyond the mountains he had to assume were dead by now, killed by whatever humans had retaken the passes and closed that route to them. The orcs standing before the city were all he had left for the assault.

So he had ordered the retreat. He had hoped the other clans would encounter them on the way, but the dragons at least should have been here long before. Something had definitely gone wrong. And he blamed Gul'dan for it all. Even if the warlock had not personally killed the Horde warriors, it was his betrayal that had forced Doomhammer to split his forces.

And he had been forced. He had made personal vows to the ancestral spirits that he would not allow his race to continue as it had. He would fight the corruption, the blood lust, the savagery at every turn, using every weapon at his command. Winning the war did not matter. His own survival meant nothing. Without honor they were mere animals, less than animals because they had the potential to be so much more and had a noble history they had thrown away for blood and combat and hatred. If he had allowed Gul'dan to escape unpunished he would have been guilty of allowing such selfishness, even encouraging it, and would have been partially responsible for the further degradation of the entire race.

At least this way he could say he had done his best, Doomhammer decided. He had upheld his honor, and through him the honor of the Horde. They might lose to the humans but they would do so proudly, on their feet and with weapons in their hands, not howling or sniveling.

Besides, the war was not over yet. He was leading his warriors south but to the east instead of the west. Khaz Modan lay there, between Lordaeron and Azeroth. It was the home of the dwarves, and they had marched through that region to reach this land. The dwarves had proven sturdy opponents but their mountain keeps had fallen before the might of the Horde, all except the city of Ironforge, which held fast. Doomhammer had left Kilrogg Deadeye and his Bleeding Hollow clan there to oversee the mining operations that had ultimately produced their ships. If he could lead his own warriors back there and reunite with Kilrogg they would have a substantial force again, enough to turn on the pursuing Alliance and destroy them in turn. The battles would be more difficult, and their conquest would take far longer, but they could still dominate this continent and carve out homes for themselves.

Provided nothing else went horribly wrong.

"Humans!" the orc scout gasped, dropping to his knees from sheer exhaustion. "To the east of us!"

Doomhammer stared at him. "East? Are you sure?" But he didn't need the scout's tired nod to know the orc was not lying. But how did the humans get east of them when they were chasing them the entire way and Lordaeron lay north and west of here?

Then he remembered. The Hinterlands! He had split off some of his forces there, leaving a clan behind to distract the humans while the rest marched on toward Quel'Thalas. The feint had worked and the humans had left half their own forces behind to flush the orcs from the forests there. Apparently those warriors had never made the trek to Capital City, and now they were heading toward them from the east. Which meant, if he was not careful, the two Alliance armies would trap his orcs between them and crush the last chance the Horde had for escape, much less victory.

"How many?" he demanded of the scout, who was gulping water from a skin.

"Hundreds, maybe more," the orc answered finally, frowning in concentration. "And some of those were heavily armored as well."

Doomhammer grimaced and turned away, swinging his hammer about him in great arcs to relieve the anger raging within him. Damn them! That many Alliance warriors could lay waste to his own forces, especially with their horsemen coming up fast from behind. And he was still days away from Khaz Modan. Nor had they seen a single hint of the dragon riders or their other lost brethren.

He had no choice. Doomhammer looked up and caught Tharbek's eye. "Quicken the pace," he told his lieutenant. "Full run, no breaks. We need to reach Khaz Modan as soon as possible."

Tharbek nodded and hurried off to shout orders to the other orcs, and Doomhammer growled as he watched the younger warrior go. Running felt too much like defeat, and that was something he hated to even consider. But he could not risk an open battle now. He needed to reach the Bleeding Hollow first. Then he could turn and face the restored Alliance army on more equal terms.

"There!" Tharbek pointed, and Doomhammer nodded, having already seen the orc scout crouching atop the cliff.

"Hail, Doomhammer!" the scout shouted, straightening as they approached and raising his axe in salute. "The Bleeding Hollow welcomes you back to Khaz Modan!"

"My thanks," Doomhammer shouted in reply, holding his black stone hammer aloft so the scout would recognize him easily even from this distance. "Where are Kilrogg and the rest?"

"We have made camp in a valley back within the mountains proper," the scout answered, leaping down to a lower ledge so they could converse more easily. "I will run and tell of your approach." He glanced up, and Doomhammer knew he was surveying the mass of warriors behind him. "Where is the rest of the Horde?"

"Dead, most of them," Doomhammer replied bluntly. He bared his tusks as the scout's eyes widened in surprise. "And we have Alliance forces marching fast behind us. Tell Kilrogg to ready his warriors for battle."

The scout seemed about to ask another question, then thought better of it. Instead he saluted again and darted back up the cliff, disappearing over the rise at a run. Doomhammer nodded. At least they would have the Bleeding Hollow warriors beside them when they stood to face the humans again. Kilrogg was a clever old warrior, still powerful despite his years, and his clan was fierce and warlike. Between the Blackrock and the Bleeding Hollow they would still be more than a match for the Alliance.

"We cannot fight them. Not with our full force."

Doomhammer stared at Kilrogg as the older chieftain shook his head, his face glum but resolute.

"What? Why not?" Doomhammer demanded.

"The dwarves," Kilrogg replied curtly.

"The dwarves?" At first he thought the chieftain meant the gryphon—riders, but Aerie Peak was far from here. He could only be referring to the dwarves that lived here in the mountains. "But we crushed their armies and routed them from their citadels."

"From all but one," Kilrogg corrected, glancing up so both his good eye and the dead, scarred one stared at Doomhammer. "We have not been able to crack Ironforge, and I have lost many good warriors in each attempt."

"Then leave it," Doomhammer insisted. "We do not need it now. We must turn on the humans before they can cross the land bridges and mass on this side of the channel. Once we have destroyed their army we can fall upon Ironforge and rip it open, then station our own warriors there while we march north again to finish our conquest there."

But Kilrogg shook his head. "The dwarves are too fierce to leave at our backs," he stated. "I have fought them many times these past few months, and I tell you true, if we let them they will boil from their fortress and fall upon us like angry wasps. Each time we crushed one of their citadels the survivors fled to Ironforge and it took them in—I can only guess how deep its levels run, but the whole of the dwarf nation lurk within it and await a chance for revenge. If we do not guard that place and keep them too busy to emerge we will face not one army but two."

Doomhammer paced, considering this new information. He trusted Kilrogg's judgment, but that meant they would not have enough warriors to stand against the Alliance here and hope to win. He would need to keep moving.

"Stay here," he told Kilrogg finally. "Keep as many warriors as you need to hold the dwarves and harry the humans. I will lead the rest to Blackrock Spire, where we can make our stand from within its sturdy walls." He glanced at the older chieftain. "If you can, bring your warriors there afterward. Perhaps you can fall on the humans from behind. Or perhaps more of our people will appear, either from the sea or from the Dark Portal." He straightened. "But Blackrock Spire is our strongpoint. If we cannot defeat the humans there we cannot hold them anywhere, and this war is lost."

Kilrogg nodded. For a second he eyed the Horde warchief, and when he spoke it was more softly than Doomhammer had ever heard the grizzled old chieftain. "You made the right choice," Kilrogg assured him. "I too know the depths of Gul'dan's treachery. He would have taken us back to the days before the Portal opened, when we were nearly mad with rage and hunger and desperation." He nodded. "Whatever else happens, you have given our people back their honor."

Doomhammer nodded back, feeling a sudden respect and even affection for the one—eyed chieftain he had always feared and disliked. He had always considered Kilrogg a brutish, savage warrior, more interested in glory than in honor. Perhaps he had been wrong all these years.

"Thank you," he said finally. There was nothing more to say and so he turned and walked away, back toward his own clan. There were orders to hand out, and another march to begin. Possibly the last.