Tides of Darkness (world of warcraf)

by Aaron Rosenberg

  But the orcs were clearly not stupid. After the third collision they held back, as if waiting for something. And Turalyon soon saw what. A handful of heavily cloaked figures advanced. Each wore a cowl low over its face, so only the eyes were visible deep within, and each carried a strange glowing truncheon. These creatures rode strange, heavily barded horses with glowing eyes, and charged forward, directly toward the shield wall, and raised their truncheons as they approached. Turalyon felt as much as heard a strange buzzing, and the soldiers directly in front of the creatures collapsed, clutching their heads as blood poured from their mouths, noses, and ears.

  "By the Light!" Uther was standing near Turalyon and bristled at the sight. "The fiends! They wield dark magic against us!" He raised his hammer high, and its head glowed silver like the moon. "Stand fast, soldiers!" he shouted. "The Holy Light protects you!" The glow spread from the hammer, shining down upon the warriors and bathing them in its light, and when the cloaked figures raised their hands again the soldiers winced but did not fall. Then Uther came crashing down upon them, the shield wall opening long enough to allow him and the other Paladins—including Gavinrad, who Faol had happily inducted into the order—through. Again Alliance soldiers cheered, heartened by the Paladins' surprising skill and power. Turalyon felt torn. As a Paladin his place was beside them, but as Lothar's lieutenant his place was here, overseeing the men.

  The Paladins and the cloaked figures were battling now, neither able to gain the upper hand. Turalyon saw one of the strange invaders clamp a hand on Gavinrad's arm, darkness radiating from the grip. But Gavinrad's holy aura shone brighter and drove the darkness away, causing his attacker to shrink back and duck a blow from the Paladin's hammer. Meanwhile the orcs continued to batter at the shield wall, tearing holes in the defense only to have another soldier step up and fill the gap.

  Then a movement caught Turalyon's eye and he saw several new figures approach, towering above the orcs. Ogres! The massive creatures advanced, swinging rough clubs that were little more than uprooted trees, and whole sections of the shield wall collapsed, soldiers crushed by the powerful blows. The Horde poured forward through the gaps, sweeping in among the Alliance soldiers.

  "Change tactics!" Turalyon shouted at the nearest herald, knowing the man would relay the orders with his horn. "Small shield units! Pull back to the hills and regroup!" The soldier nodded and raised his horn, blowing a short burst and then another. At the sound the unit leaders began shouting orders of their own, gathering their soldiers and retreating while keeping the orcs at bay. The Horde tried overrunning them but the Alliance soldiers were clumped too close together and kept their weapons up, jabbing at any orc that came too close. Each unit had its shields linked as well, forming a small shield wall all around. The orcs overwhelmed several units by sheer numbers, crashing into the warriors again and again until they faltered, but most of the Alliance soldiers were able to pull back successfully.

  Turalyon rode along the ranks at the base of the hills, organizing them. He set up another shield wall there, and as each unit retreated to it the wall opened to allow them in, then closed behind them. Those soldiers then reinforced the wall themselves and helped bring other units through safely. Turalyon tasked the archers with keeping the orcs away from the wall as much as possible, harassing any creature that came too close to pulling down a defender. They were taking a heavy toll upon the orcs, but the Horde was still beaching ships and adding more to the battle with every minute.

  "We cannot hold them for long!" Turalyon shouted to Khadgar, who had just done something to make a strange orc collapse near the boats. The orc had been dressed in robes rather than armor and had carried a staff instead of a sword, so Turalyon guessed it was a warlock, their equivalent to a mage. "We need to do something to keep them from reaching the hills! If they do get past us they'll advance straight north to Capital City!"

  Khadgar nodded. "I will do what I can," he promised. The young—old wizard concentrated and the sky above them darkened. Within minutes it went from a clear day to ominous black clouds. The sudden storm centered upon Khadgar, the mage's white hair dancing about him. Lightning flickered in the sky, and an answering spark danced across his outstretched fingers. Then there was a shattering boom, and a lightning bolt leaped forth, not from the sky but from Khadgar's hands, its light splitting the darkness. It struck just shy of the shield wall, in a cluster of orcs, and they went flying, burnt to a crisp by the powerful bolt. A second one struck, and a third, and Turalyon used the magical attack to his advantage. He regrouped his men, shoring up the shield wall, and also sent soldiers forward with brush and tinder. They laid fires in the orc's path, creating a raging blaze that stopped the Horde from advancing to the west. That reduced the risk of their surrounding the Alliance forces, and made them easier to contain and block.

  Nor were the orcs slow to notice. Several of the creatures stepped forward, trying to put out the fire, but elven archers shot them down before they could reach the flames. One fell into the fire instead, and screamed as it consumed him. That made the others shrink back again.

  The ogres were a problem, however. One lumbered through the flames, burning its legs but otherwise not slowing down. Turalyon directed a full unit against it, and targeted it with ballistae as well. But the ogre downed many warriors before it finally fell, and others were approaching behind it.

  "Target them!" Turalyon told Khadgar. "Take out the ogres!"

  Khadgar glanced his way, and Turalyon saw that his friend looked truly exhausted. "I will try," the mage agreed. "But drawing forth the lightning is…taxing." An instant later a lightning bolt burst from his fingers and struck the lead ogre, killing it at once, but even as its massive, blackened corpse fell Khadgar shook his head. "That is all I can do," he warned.

  Turalyon hoped it would be enough. The other ogres hesitated, even their small brains able to comprehend the danger, and that gave his men time to target them with arrows and more ballistae. The shield wall still held but the Horde was massing again, and before long it would be able to simply roll over the defenders, its losses barely diminishing its bulk. Uther and the other Paladins had not returned, and Turalyon could only assume they were still keeping those cloaked figures at bay.

  He was still wondering what to do when Lothar appeared beside him. "Ready the cavalry!" the Champion shouted. "And sound the charge!"

  Charge? Into that? Turalyon stared at his commander for an instant, then shrugged. Well, why not? Their defenses could not hold out forever. He signaled the herald, who blew a might blast. Then those warriors on horseback were forming up, and Turalyon swung in with them, placing himself just behind Lothar, who rode at their head. The shield wall parted for them, and they crashed into the Horde's front ranks, carving a path back through the orcs. After a minute Lothar signaled and they wheeled about, the archers providing cover as they swung clear. Then they struck again.

  They were readying for a third charge when a drum beat from somewhere within the Horde—and the orcs fell back!

  "We did it!" Turalyon shouted. "They're retreating!"

  Lothar nodded but did not turn away, watching as the orcs turned and ran a short distance, then regrouped. Then the creatures turned and began moving again, at a fast march—to the right of the Alliance forces.

  "They're heading east," Lothar said quietly. He made no move to chase them. "Into the Hinterlands."

  "Are we going after them?" Turalyon asked. His blood was still racing from the charges and he wanted to run after the orcs and smash them all. "We have them on the run!"

  But the Champion shook his head. "No," he corrected. "We blocked them, and held. But they are not running from us. They are going around us." Now he did turn to Turalyon, and smiled, a grim, weary smile. "Still," he said, "that is something."

  "But we should go after them before they can find another place to stand," Turalyon urged. "Shouldn't we?"

  "We should," Lothar agreed. "But look behind you." Turalyon turned and saw at once w
hat the older warrior meant. Their forces were sagging now that the battle was over, and he saw men collapsing where they stood, both from wounds and from sheer fatigue. The battle had lasted for hours, though it had not felt like it at the time, and he found himself aching as well now that it was done. Plus they had destroyed many weapons, emptied most of their ballistae, and used up most of the army's firewood and tinder as well.

  "We need to resupply," Turalyon admitted out loud. "We are in no shape to pursue them now."

  "No." Lothar turned his horse back toward their own lines. "But we have tested their forces now, and our men have seen that they can stand against the Horde. That is good. And we have kept them from the capital. Also good." He glanced at Turalyon, and nodded finally. "You did well," he said quietly before nudging his horse back toward their troops and the command tent that lay beyond.

  Turalyon watched him go for a moment. The simple praise had filled him with pride. And, he realized as he brought his own horse around to follow his commander, Khadgar had been right. He had not had time to be afraid.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Nekros!"

  Zuluhed, chieftain and shaman of the Dragonmaw clan, strode down the long corridor, glaring at every orc that dared get in his way. "Nekros!" he bellowed again.

  "Here, I'm here!" Nekros Skullcrusher limped out of a nearby cavern, his wooden leg clanking against the rough stone floor, ducking to keep from bashing his head against the low doorway. "What?"

  Zuluhed stopped beside his Second and glared at him.

  "How goes the weapon?" Zuluhed demanded, leaning in close. "Is it ready?"

  Nekros grinned at him, showing his yellowed tusks. "Come and see for yourself." He turned and limped back the way he had come, and Zuluhed followed, muttering to himself. He hated this place. It was called Grim Batol, or at least the dwarves had named it so, but it had been one of their fortresses then. Now it be longed to the Dragonmaw, and though its chambers were large enough he despised the low—ceilinged corridors and even lower doorways, tall enough for dwarves but barely enough for most orcs. They would have enlarged the openings but stone was difficult to work and they had little time for such frivolities. The fortress was sturdy, carved into the mountain itself, and easily defended, and that was the important thing.

  Nekros led him down farther into the fortress, and finally into a vast underground chamber. And there, chained to the wall by heavy links of dark iron, was a sight that still made Zuluhed catch his breath. Filling the room end to end was a vast figure, coiled in about itself either for comfort of from despair, yet still its wingtips brushed the ceiling and its tail lashed at the far wall. Torches guttered along the walls, their light reflecting from scale after scale, gleaming red as blood, red as flame.

  A dragon.

  Not just any dragon, either. This was Alexstrasza, greatest of the red dragons, mother of her flight, the queen of her people. Perhaps the most powerful creature in this world, strong enough to destroy entire clans with a single sweep of her majestic claws and consume whole ogres with a snap of her mighty jaws.

  Yet they had captured her.

  Well, Nekros had. The entire clan had sought a dragon for weeks, any dragon, and had at last spied a lone red male flying low above the forest, nursing a wounded wing. Zuluhed had not wanted to think what could have injured such a majestic creature, but it had made their task easier. They had followed the dragon back to its family's lair, a high mountain peak around which dragons flew like birds, dancing upon the air. They had watched that peak for days, unsure what to do next, until Nekros announced that he had tamed the Demon Soul. Then they had slowly, cautiously crept up to the top, and there they had discovered Alexstrasza and her three mates. The Dragonqueen had noticed them immediately, and had killed four orcs in an instant, opening her mouth and dousing them with flames. But then Nekros had stepped forward and subdued her. By himself. He had ordered Alexstrasza and her kin to follow him here, and they had. The rest of the Dragonmaw had sung Nekros's praises that day, the orc who had singlehandedly cowed an entire dragon flight.

  But the maimed warrior—warlock would not have been able to do so without Zuluhed, or the artifact he had found. Zuluhed wished he were able to wield the item himself, but the Demon Soul had not responded to him or his shamanic magic. It had only answered to Nekros, and now the peg—legged orc was the only one capable of controlling it.

  But that was acceptable. Because that meant it was Nekros who was trapped here in these caves, and Zuluhed who could fight with the rest of the Horde. Not that the peg—legged orc was fit for much else—he had become useless in combat the minute a human had severed his left leg below the knee. Most orcs would have killed themselves then, or at least leaped upon another foe and died in battle. Nekros had survived, though whether from cowardice or ill luck no one could say.

  Zuluhed was glad Nekros had. Because though he had found the Demon Soul, Zuluhed had been unable to use it. He had been able to sense the power trapped within the disc, even before he had uncovered it in a small cave deep below the mountains. But that power had remained locked within the gleaming gold artifact. Clearly something other than shaman lore was needed here. Zuluhed had considered bringing the object—which he had named the Demon Soul because he could sense the demon—tainted energy within it, along with some other massive power he could not identify—to Doomhammer, but had decided against it. The Warchief was a powerful warrior and a noble orc but he had no experience with or understanding of magic. Gul'dan had been another possibility, but Zuluhed did not trust the wily chief warlock. He remembered when Gul'dan had been young and apprenticed to Ner'zhul. Now there had been a shaman! Wise and noble, revered by all, Ner'zhul had worked for the betterment of not only his own clan but all the orcs. It had been he who had first brought them strange gifts of knowledge and power from ancient spirits, and he who had encouraged and cemented stronger bonds between the different clans.

  For a time, all had been good. Then it had all gone wrong. The spirits had proven false, and their own ancestor spirits stopped speaking to them, out of anger. The shaman had lost their powers, leaving their clans defenseless from magical attack. And then Gul'dan had stepped forward. The former apprentice supplanted his master and claimed to have found a new way, a new source of magic. He offered to teach the other shaman. And many had accepted his offer, becoming warlocks.

  Not Zuluhed, however. He had not trusted Gul'dan, who had always struck him as self—serving. And these strange powers smacked of the demonic. It was horror enough that the ancestors no longer spoke to him, and that the elements no longer answered his call. He would not sully himself further by consorting with such unnatural powers as Gul'dan offered.

  Zuluhed had not been the only shaman to refuse, of course. But most had accepted. And then they had changed, growing larger and darker, as if their bodies reflected the taint within. Their world had suffered depredations as well, the land dying bit by bit and the skies turning red. The Horde was forced to come to this strange world instead, and they had to conquer it if they wanted their clans to ever know peace again.

  Nekros had shown promise as an apprentice shaman, and Zuluhed had held hopes for him. But when Gul'dan had offered other magics Nekros had jumped at them. The young orc had learned the warlock skills well, but something had made him step away, leaving all that behind to become a warrior once more. It had renewed Zuluhed's faith in the younger orc. He had never asked what had caused the change, but knew it had something to do with loyalties—Gul'dan and his Shadow Council, or the Dragonmaw clan. Nekros had chosen his clan. After that Zuluhed had begun to confide in him again, and to ask the warrior for advice whenever forced to deal with the warlocks. It had been to Nekros that he had brought the disc, and though maimed the warrior—warlock had not failed him. It was thanks to Nekros that they stood here today, ready to see their plans set in motion.

  "So," Zuluhed said, starting to walk closer to the great beast. "Have we—" He stopped as Nekros extended a thick arm, bloc
king his path.

  "Wait," the grizzled orc warned. He pulled the Demon Soul from a pouch at his belt, holding the large, featureless gold disc aloft. "Come," he called.

  As Zuluhed watched, a rush of tiny sparks appeared from throughout the chamber and flew together, coalescing into a shape. The shape gained dimension, depth, and detail, forming a tall, powerfully built humanoid wearing strange bone—like armor. Its head was shaped like a skull but rimmed in flame, and its eyes were balls of black fire. The creature towered over them, as tall as an orc but less oafish, radiating power and vigilance.

  "We will enter," Nekros told it, holding the Demon Soul before him. The strange creature burst into a shower of sparks again, scattering through the room, and the maimed orc nodded for his chieftain to continue.

  Zuluhed advanced again, cautiously at first in case the creature had not in fact left. But it had—whatever it was, Nekros's hold over it seemed absolute. Which was good, since they had both seen what could happen otherwise. One of their clan members had rushed into the chamber at one point, bearing a message from Doomhammer, and had not waited for Nekros to dismiss the warden. The creature had appeared from nowhere and its large, fiery skeletal hands had grasped the unwary orc's head on either side. Flames had sprung up then, consuming the hapless messenger. Within seconds his shrieking stopped, his body going limp as his head collapsed in on itself, a mere pile of cinders.

  Now, however, the chieftain was able to walk into the cavern unmolested, and he approached the Dragonqueen, stopping just beyond the reach of her chains. Her massive triangular head swiveled to watch him, those great yellow orbs staring unblinking as he studied her in turn.

  "Have you come to gloat then, little orc? Have you not tormented me and harmed my children enough?" Alexstrasza demanded. Her jaws snapped in fury, but the chains held her fast, their natural strength enhanced by the power of the artifact.