Tides of Darkness (world of warcraf)

by Aaron Rosenberg

  But the scout was shaking his head. "Not attacking. They're on the mainland and they've been captured." He grinned. "By humans."

  That got Doomhammer's attention. "Where?" he demanded.

  "Not far from the shore, along the hills just within the forests," the scout answered promptly. "They were marching west, though it was slow going for them."

  "How many?"

  "Close to forty humans," the scout replied. "Ten trolls."

  Doomhammer nodded and turned back to Rend. "Gather your strongest warriors," he instructed. "And quickly. You leave at once." He glowered at the Black Tooth Grin leader. "Be clear, however," he warned, "that this is a raiding party only. You are to rescue the trolls and bring them back here with you. Avoid being seen as much as possible, and kill any who do spy you. I will not have our battle plans ruined because you were careless."

  The chieftain nodded and departed without a word, moving quickly toward a warrior lounging nearby. Rend began barking orders even before he had reached the other orc, and the warrior quickly straightened, nodded, and ran off, no doubt seeking his fellows. Doomhammer waited impatiently, signaling the scout to wait as well. His hands flexed in anticipation but his mind was far away, back many months to his previous encounter with the trolls.

  Blackhand had shocked the other orc clans, back on their homeworld, by declaring his intent to ally with the ogres. It had proven a useful partnership, the monstrous creatures lending considerable strength to their Horde, but it still went against the grain. Thus many had been skeptical when they had heard reports of similar creatures here on this new, lush world—and Blackhand had announced they would win these creatures to their war banner as well.

  He had sent Doomhammer and a handful of other Blackrock warriors to make contact, a sign of the trust he placed in his young Second. Even now Doomhammer felt guilty about that, for he had betrayed his warchief's trust and turned on him, killing him and taking his place as leader. Still, it was the way of the clans, and Blackhand had been leading their people to their own death and destruction. Doomhammer had been forced to act in order to save them. He reached back and down, running his fingers along the smooth stone head of his hammer where it hung across his back, the handle high over his shoulder and the head down beside his thigh. Long ago shaman had prophesied that the mighty weapon would one day see the salvation of their people. They had also said, however, that the wielder who saved them would also doom them. And that he would be the last of the Doomhammer line. Doomhammer had wondered about that many times, and even more since he had become warchief and leader of the Horde. Had his taking control meant their people's salvation? He certainly felt that to be the case. But did that mean he was also destined to doom them afterward? And that his line would end with him? He hoped not.

  At that time, however, Doomhammer had not been as concerned with such matters. He still trusted Blackhand, at least the orc leader's loyalty to their people and intent to see them masters of this world, and still followed the warchief's orders, though he did his best to moderate Blackhand's love of unnecessary violence. Not that Doomhammer shrank from combat, and as with most orc warriors he delighted in the exertions and the thrill of battle, but there were times when too much force could actually reduce the value of a victory. This mission, however, had involved communication rather than warfare, and Doomhammer had been intrigued and honored. And perhaps, deep down, even a little frightened. Thus far they had encountered only humans on this new world, and one or two of the diminutive but mighty creatures called dwarves. If this world had ogres, however, the Horde could find itself with a more powerful enemy than they had yet seen.

  It took two weeks before Doomhammer finally encountered a troll. He and his warriors wandered through the forest where a scout had seen one, making no effort to conceal themselves. As the time passed they had become more convinced the scout had lied or simply been mistaken, jumping at shadows and then concocting a story to cover his own cowardice. Then one night, just as twilight stretched across the land and threw long shadows under the trees, a figure swung down from the branches high above, dropping silently to the ground just beyond the orcs' campfire. Another appeared an instant later, than another, until the orcs found themselves surrounded by six of the silent, shadowy figures.

  At first Doomhammer thought the scout had been correct and they were facing ogres, though these were slightly smaller and moved with a silence and a grace he had never seen the behemoths possess before. But then a ray of fading sunlight struck one of the creatures as it stalked forward and Doomhammer saw that its skin was green, as green as his own, as green as the leaves on the trees. That explained why they had not noticed the creatures before—their coloration allowed them to blend into the foliage, especially if they moved through the branches as these evidently had. He also saw that the creature was taller than he was and leaner than an ogre, and more proportioned, lacking the overlong arms and oversized hands and massive head of those creatures. And the look the approaching figure gave him, firelight glinting in its dark eyes as it extended a spear to prod at Doomhammer, showed a certain intelligence as well.

  "We are not your foes!" Doomhammer shouted, his cry splitting the quiet night. He batted the spear aside with one hand, noting as he did that the head was chipped stone and looked very sharp. "I seek your leader!"

  A rumble came from the creatures then, and after an instant Doomhammer realized it was laughter.

  "What you be wantin' with our leader, morsel?" the lead creature replied, its mouth splitting in a monstrous grin. They had tusks as well, Doomhammer saw, though longer and thicker than his own, and more blunt from the look of them. He also noticed the creature's hair, which rose in a dark crest above its head. Surely that look was not natural, meaning these creatures groomed themselves. Definitely not mere beasts, then.

  "I would speak with him, on behalf of my own leader," Doomhammer replied. He kept his hands at his side, open to show he carried no weapon, yet he was wary. He would be a fool not to be.

  That was fortunate, for the creature laughed again. "We no be speakin' with morsels," it replied. "We be eatin' them!" And it thrust its spear, no longer a questioning prod but a hard, swift motion that would have gutted Doomhammer as easily as he might have speared a fish. If he had stood still for the blow. Instead he twisted away, pulling his hammer free from his back, and bellowed a warcry. The shout seemed to startle the creature, which paused in the act of withdrawing its weapon for a second attack. Doomhammer did not give it time to recover. He leaped forward, hammer swinging hard, and smashed one of the creature's legs full in the knee. The creature toppled with a howl of pain, clutching the shattered limb, and Doomhammer swung again, a mighty overhand blow that crushed the creature's skull.

  "I say again, I seek your leader!" he shouted, turning to face the other creatures, who had not moved during the quick fight. "Take me to him or I shall kill the rest of you and seek others more willing!" He raised his hammer for emphasis, knowing from long experience the sight of its black stone head dripping with fresh blood and matted hair and bone was enough to unnerve most foes.

  The gesture worked. The other creatures backed away a step, raising their weapons high to show they were not attacking. And then one stepped around the others and approached him. This one's hair was braided rather than cut in a stiff crest, and it wore a necklace of bones around its neck.

  "You be wishin' ta speak with Zul'jin?" the creature asked. Doomhammer nodded, assuming that was either the name or the title of their leader. "I be bringin' him here," the creature offered. It turned away and disappeared into the shadows without a sound, leaving its four companions behind. They glanced at each other, and at the orcs, clearly not sure what to do now.

  "We shall wait," Doomhammer announced calmly, both to them and to his own warriors. He set the head of his hammer on the ground and leaned on the long handle, alert but unconcerned. When they saw he was not attacking the creatures relaxed slightly, lowering their own weapons as well. One eve
n sprawled on the ground, though his eyes tracked the orcs' every movement.

  "What are you called?" Doomhammer asked that one after several minutes.

  "I am Krul'tan," the creature replied.

  "Orgrim Doomhammer." Doomhammer indicated himself with a thumb. "And we are orcs, of the Blackrock clan. What are your people?"

  "We be forest trolls," came the surprised answer, as if Krul'tan could not believe they did not know. "Amani tribe."

  Doomhammer nodded. Forest trolls. And they had tribes. Which meant they were civilized. Much, much more than ogres. For the first time he found himself thinking Blackhand's idea might be wise. These creatures seemed more like orcs than ogres, despite their size and strength. What allies they would make! And they were native to this world, which meant they would know its geography, its inhabitants, and its dangers.

  An hour passed. Then, without warning, shadows separated from the trees and moved forward on large, silent feet, becoming the troll who had left and three others.

  "You be wantin' Zul'jin?" one of them demanded, stepping close enough for Doomhammer to see the beads and bits of metal dangling from his long braids. "I am here!" Zul'jin was even taller than the other trolls and leaner. He wore some sort of heavy cloth wrapped around his waist and groin and an open vest of heavy leather. A thick scarf was wound about his neck and covered his face up to the nose, giving him a sinister appearance. This close Doomhammer could also see that the troll's skin was furred; after a second he realized it looked like moss. The trolls were green because they were covered in moss! What odd new creatures they were!

  "I am Doomhammer, and yes, I would speak with you." Doomhammer looked up at the forest troll leader, refusing to show any fear. "My leader, Blackhand, rules the orc Horde. No doubt you have seen our people moving through the forest."

  Zul'jin nodded. "We been seein' you crashing through the trees, ya. You be clumsier than the humans," he commented. "Stronger, though. An' armed for battle. What you be wantin' with us?" Even behind the scarf Doomhammer could see the troll grin and it was not a pleasant expression. "You want our forests, ya? You be fightin' us for them, then." His hands dropped to his sides, and to the twin axes that hung there. "And you be losin'." Doomhammer suspected the troll leader was right, too. The Horde significantly outnumbered them, of course, but if all forest trolls were as strong and silent as these they could strike from anywhere and disappear again. They could cut down any orcs entering this place, and the Horde would not be able to move a large force through the trees to combat the attacks.

  Fortunately, that was not their goal.

  "We do not want your forests," Doomhammer assured the troll leader. "We want your strength. We plan to conquer this world, and we would have you beside us as allies."

  Zul'jin frowned. "Allies? Why? What would we gain?"

  "What would you want?"

  One of the other trolls said something in a strange, hissing language and Zul'jin cut him off with a sharp reply. "We need nothing, ya" he answered finally, decisively. "We have our forest. None dare intrude here, save only the accursed elves, and those we be handlin' ourselves."

  "Are you sure?" Doomhammer asked, sensing a possible opening. "These elves, they are a race unto themselves? A mighty one?"

  "Mighty, ya," the troll agreed grudgingly. "But we been killin' them since ancient times, when they first came to this land. We needin' no help with them."

  "Why pick them off one by one, though?" Doomhammer asked. "Why not march on their homes and destroy them utterly? We could aid you! With the Horde behind you, you could crush the elves once and for all and truly hold the forest without contest!"

  Zul'jin seemed to consider that, and for a moment Doomhammer dared to hope the lean forest troll would agree. But finally he shook his head. "We fight the elves ourselves," he explained. "We needin' no help. And we're not wantin' the rest of the world, not any more. So fighting others will not be givin' us anything."

  Doomhammer sighed. He could see the forest troll's mind was set. And he guessed that pushing the point would only antagonize him. "I understand," he said at last. "My leader will be disappointed, as am I. But I respect your decision."

  Zul'jin nodded. "Go in peace, orc," he whispered, already stepping backward toward the shadows. "No troll will hinder you, ya." And then he was gone, and the other forest trolls with him.

  Blackhand had indeed been disappointed, and the warchief had bellowed at Doomhammer and the others about failing in their mission. But he had calmed down soon enough, and agreed with Doomhammer's own assessment that pushing the trolls might have made them enemies instead of neutral parties. And that they did not wish to do.

  Doomhammer still regretted the troll leader's decision, however, and he had instructed his scouts to watch for trolls any time they entered or even passed near the forest. And now that watching had perhaps paid off.

  Doomhammer watched as the two boats beached upon the island's north shore. Rend leaped ashore at once, followed more slowly by a troll whose hair was knotted into braids. A long scarf was wrapped around the troll's neck and lower face, and Doomhammer grinned with delight. It was Zul'jin himself!

  "They were penned and chained," Rend reported, stopping only a few feet from where Doomhammer stood. "The humans were careless, assuming the only threat in the forest was the one they had already captured." The Black Tooth Grin chieftain laughed. "No one who saw us lived."

  "Good." They watched as the troll leader approached. He looked the same as the last time they had met, and Doomhammer could tell from the troll's expression that he remembered their encounter as well.

  "Your warriors saved us," the forest troll acknowledged, stepping up beside Doomhammer and giving him a nod, a greeting among equals. "They were too many, ya, an' used torches ta hold us at bay."

  Doomhammer nodded. "I am pleased to aid a fellow warrior," he said. "When I heard you had been captured I sent my warriors at once."

  Zul'jin grinned. "Your leader be sendin' you?"

  "I am leader now," Doomhammer replied, his own grin widening.

  The troll considered this. "Your Horde still seekin' to conquer the world, ya?" he asked finally.

  Doomhammer nodded, not daring to speak.

  "We be aidin' you, then," Zul'jin announced after a moment. "As you aided us. Allies." He extended his hand.

  "Allies." Doomhammer clasped it. His mind was already awhirl with possibilities. Between the trolls and the Horde and the new forces Zuluhed was binding to the Horde's will, nothing would stand in their way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two days after the first meeting, Lothar found himself back in the Lordaeron throne room with the continent's rulers. Khadgar had accompanied him again, and Lothar was glad of the lad's presence. Terenas was a kindly host and a good man, as were some of the other monarchs, but the young wizard was the only one Lothar had known from Azeroth. Even though the young man was not native to Stormwind his presence reminded Lothar of home.

  Home. A place that no longer existed. Lothar knew he would have to accept that at some point. It still seemed unreal for now. He kept expecting to turn and see Llane laughing, or look up and watch a pair of gryphons gliding by, or hear the sound of his men martialling in the courtyard. But all that was gone now. Their friends were dead. Their home had fallen. And he vowed to keep this land from following it into darkness, even if it cost his life.

  Right now he thought it more likely to cost him his sanity. Lothar had never had much patience for politics, and had watched amazed over the years as Llane placated this noble and that one, easing arguments, diffusing conflicts, settling disputes, all the while never favoring any one over the other or letting personal interests interfere with affairs of state. It was all a game, Llane had told him over and over again, a game of positioning and influence and subtle maneuvering. No one ever really won, not for long, and the goal was simply to maintain the strongest position possible for as long as possible.

  From what Lothar had seen, this con
tinent's monarchs were experts at the game. And being forced to deal with them, supposedly as an equal, was driving him to his wit's end.

  After lunch that first day, they had returned to the throne room for more discussions. Everyone seemed to accept the idea that the Horde would come, even that too—smooth Perenolde. Now the question was what to do about it.

  It had taken the rest of the day to convince everyone that a unified army was the only answer. Terenas had agreed at once, fortunately, as had Trollbane, and Proudmoore had taken little coaxing. But Perenolde and Graymane had been more difficult. Lothar wasn't surprised at Perenolde's reluctance. He'd known similar men back in Stormwind, smooth and silky and nasty and always out for themselves at any cost. More often than not they had turned out to be cowards. Perenolde was probably afraid of battle personally and extended that to his subjects, many of whom were no doubt braver than he was. Graymane was a surprise, however. The man certainly looked the warrior, with that powerful frame and his heavy armor. Nor had he stated that he would not fight. But he had been quick to suggest other options every time the talk had turned back toward war, and Perenolde of course had insisted on examining each suggestion in great detail. It was only after Proudmoore and Trollbane all but accused Graymane of cowardice that the burly man had agreed an army was their own recourse.

  The second day had been more of the same. They had settled on the idea of war, at least, but now there were the logistics of cooperation to consider. Which armies would supply what troops, where they would be stationed, how they would be supplied—details Lothar had dealt with himself for years but only for one nation's military. Now they were dealing with five, not counting any Stormwind survivors he could muster, and each king had his own ideas and his own methods.