Tides of Darkness (world of warcraf)

by Aaron Rosenberg

  Bradok paused abruptly, and wheeled his dragon around for a second look. Yes, he had been right the first time. The ships were leaving the shore and returning to the sea. But they were supposed to be sitting idle, in case the Horde needed them again. Why were they moving now?

  Glancing around, Bradok spied a familiar figure on the lead boat. It was Gul'dan, the warlock. Bradok had feared him, as did most of the orcs, but not anymore. He was a dragon rider now. What could he possibly have to be afraid of?

  Angling his dragon around, Bradok swooped toward the lead ship. Gul'dan turned toward him as he approached.

  "Why are you taking the boats?" Bradok shouted, waving his free arm while his dragon kept pace with the ship. The warlock looked puzzled, and held up both hands in confusion. Bradok coaxed his dragon closer. "You need to turn the boats around! The Horde is in Lordaeron, not across the sea!" he shouted again. Still Gul'dan gestured that he could not hear him. This time Bradok managed to bring his dragon almost on top of the ship, so he was barely ten feet from the warlock. "I said—" Suddenly Gul'dan's hand shot forward, a green ray lancing from it to Bradok's chest. He felt a burst of intense pain, and sensed his lungs tighten and his heart falter, then gasped as both stopped working altogether. The world turned dark with a rush, and Bradok toppled from his saddle, narrowly missing the ship and plummeting toward the waves. His last thought was that at least he'd had a chance to fly.

  Gul'dan sneered as he watched the dragon rider's body disappear beneath the water. He'd needed the fool to get close before his magic would work fast enough to prevent retaliation. He'd also worried what the dragon itself might do with its rider dead, and watched warily as the massive red beast reared up, tilting its head back to release a fierce cry, and then beat its wings hard and shot up into the sky. Gul'dan watched long enough to make sure the dragon was not circling around for an attack and then turned back to watching the water flow past the ship's prow.

  He didn't see the second figure soaring high above. Torgus had been racing Bradok before his friend had spotted the ships, and had seen everything. Now he wheeled his dragon around and headed back toward Quel'Thalas at top speed. Zuluhed would want to know what had happened, and Torgus suspected he would be flying off to inform the rest of the Horde, and perhaps even Doomhammer himself, as well.

  The passes were utterly deserted, as promised, and Doomhammer led his warriors through them at a fast run. He had thought the cloaked stranger would keep his word, and glad to see his guess had been correct, but still this route was dangerous. With such narrow stone passes it would only take a handful of warriors to block their way, and once a few bodies piled up each pass would be too choked to allow passage of any sort. So he hurried his troops along, knowing he would be happier once they had left this cold mountain region far behind.

  It took them two days to cross the snow—covered mountains and descend into foothills on the far side. In that time the orcs did not see a single human. Some of the warriors even grumbled that they had missed the chance to kill anyone during their passage, but their chieftains assured them they would get their chance.

  On the second day the front ranks of the Horde poured down from the mountains. Doomhammer was leading them as always, and he stopped to admire the scene before him. Beyond the foothills stretched an enormous lake, its waters glistening silvery green in the early light. On the far side rose more mountains, marching north—south on a slight angle. The mountains the orcs had just crossed were similar except they angled east as they rose. These new peaks angled west, and together the two ranges formed a gargantuan V, with the lake filling the center. And on the lake's northern shore was a majestic walled city.

  " Capital City." Doomhammer studied it a moment, then raised his hammer high above him with both hands and bellowed a warcry. The warriors of the Horde took up the cry, and soon the hills around them were echoing with their rage and joy and bloodlust. Doomhammer laughed. The city would know he and his people were here, but after that cry they would be quaking in their boots. And the Horde would be upon them before they could recover.

  "To the city!" Doomhammer shouted, raising his hammer again. "We will crush it, and with it the heart of the opposition! Onward, warriors! Let us bring the fight to them while our warcry still echoes in their ears!"

  And Doomhammer charged down out of the foothills and onto the plain, angling up and across as he focused upon the massive walled city that was his target.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "Sire! Sire, the orcs are coming!"

  King Terenas looked up, startled, as Morev the guard commander burst into his throneroom. "What?" He stood, ignoring the panicked cries from the nobles and commoners gathered there to seek audience with him, and beckoned the commander forward. "The orcs? Here?"

  "Yes, sire," the man answered. Morev was a seasoned veteran, a warrior Terenas had known since his youth, and it was shocking to see him pale and shaking. "They must have come across the mountains—they are pouring onto the far side of the lake even as we speak!"

  Terenas brushed past the commander and strode out of the throne room, moving rapidly down the hall and up a short flight of stairs to the nearest balcony, which stood off his wife's drawing room. Lianne was in there with their daughter, Calia, and her ladies in waiting, and looked up, surprised, as he entered and walked right past her, Morev trailing behind him.

  Throwing up the windows beyond, Terenas stepped out onto the balcony—and stopped, stunned. Normally from here he had a breathtaking view of the mountains across the lake. Those were still the same, but the strip of green he usually saw between water and rock was now black and he could see it shifting as he watched, like ground being churned up from beneath. The Horde had indeed arrived.

  "How did this happen?" he demanded of Morev, who had stepped out as well and was staring at the sight, his mouth open. "They must have come through Alterac—why did Perenolde not stop them cold?"

  "They must have overwhelmed him, sire," Morev answered dismissively, even in his terror showing his opinion of Alterac's king and soldiers. "Those mountain passes are narrow and a competent troop could have held the Horde back, but not if they were following incompetent orders."

  Terenas frowned and shook his head. He shared Morev's opinion—he had never liked Perenolde, who had always struck him as selfish and scheming. But Hath, Perenolde's general, was a competent commander and a solid warrior in his own right. He would have assembled a solid defense—although if Perenolde gave an order, even a foolish one, Hath would probably obey it.

  "Send messengers to Alterac," he decided finally. "And to the Alliance army as well, letting them know our situation. We'll find out what happened later," Terenas decided, not bothering to point out that this would require them to survive until then. "First things first. Rally the guards, sound the alarm, and get everyone inside the gates. We don't have much time." He glanced again across the lake, where the darkness was already creeping down the far bank and around the water. No, not much time at all.

  Pigeons were released to the other Alliance leaders and to the last known location of the Alliance army, in the Hinterlands. One of those pigeons flew straight to Stromgarde, and its message was quickly untied and brought straight to Thoras Trollbane, Stromgarde's gruff master.

  "What?" Trollbane shouted when he had read the message. He had been drinking ale from a heavy wooden mug and now he hurled the mug at the far wall, where it shattered, leaving a streak of ale and wood splinters down to the floor. "That fool! What did he do, let them through?" Trollbane despised Perenolde—not only were they neighbors and thus rivals over borderlands but he personally disliked the man. He was too oily, too smooth by far. But even an arrogant, overdressed idiot like Perenolde should have been able to block an invading army! Perhaps not stop them completely—if the Horde was as numerous as Lothar had claimed, and as subsequent reports had confirmed, they could muscle their way through regardless—but at least slow them down significantly, inflict heavy damage, and warn Lordaeron
early enough for them to prepare properly. With the orcs already on the plains by the lake, Terenas would not have time to do much more than close his gates and brace for the first assault.

  Trollbane stood and began pacing, the message slip still clenched unnoticed in his fist. He wanted to go to his friend's aid, but wasn't sure that would be the best course of action. Terenas was a fine strategist, and his guards were among the finest in the land, his gates and walls strong and thick. They could hold out against the first wave, he was sure of that. The danger lay in letting the full Horde roll down from the mountains and swarm Capital City with sheer numbers.

  "Damn him!" Trollbane beat his fist against the arm of his heavy chair as he passed it. "Perenolde should have held them! He should at least have warned us! Even he is not that incompetent!" He paused mid—stride as another thought struck him. Perenolde had never been enthusiastic about the Alliance. He and Graymane had been the only two to resist, Trollbane remembered. He thought back to the meetings in Capital City, with Lothar and Terenas and the others. Yes. Graymane had spurned the idea, but mainly because he boasted that Gilneas could crush anyone foolish enough to invade them. But Perenolde had disliked the idea of combat. Trollbane had always thought his neighbor a coward at heart, and something of a bully—he was perfectly willing to fight when he knew he held the upper hand, but hated to engage in combat if it put him at any risk. And Perenolde had been the one to suggest they try negotiating first.

  "That fool! That traitorous little fool!" Trollbane kicked his chair hard enough to send it skittering across the granite floor. He had done it, hadn't he? He had negotiated with the Horde! Trollbane knew he was right. Perenolde cared nothing for others, only for his own hide. He would happily make a deal with demons if it kept him and his own lands safe. And that was exactly what he had done. It all made perfect sense now. The reason the Horde had made it through the mountains without anyone raising the alarm, the reason Perenolde had not responded or warned anyone. He had let them pass. Presumably for some promise of leniency or continued autonomy after the war.

  "Rargh! Infuriated beyond words, Trollbane snatched his axe from where it hung on the column beside his chair and hacked at the table in front of him, shattering it with a single blow. "I'll kill him!" he bellowed. His warriors and nobles shrank back, alarmed, and only their reaction reminded Trollbane that he was not alone. And that personal vengeance would have to wait. The war came first.

  "Assemble the troops," he instructed his startled guards. "We are going to Alterac."

  "But, sire," his guard captain replied, "we've already sent half our troops out with the main Alliance army!"

  Trollbane frowned. "Well, there's nothing for it. Grab everyone you can find."

  "Are we lending them aid, sire?" one of the nobles asked.

  "In a manner of speaking," Trollbane replied, hefting his axe again and grinning at the man. "In a manner of speaking."

  Anduin Lothar raised his visor and glanced around, wiping grit and sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand as he idly drew his sword across the body of a fallen orc, cleaning the blade of the blood and gore that coated its length.

  "Is that the last of them, sir?" one of his soldiers asked.

  "I don't know, son," Lothar replied honestly, his eyes still roving the trees. "I hope so, but I wouldn't count on it."

  "How many of these things are there?" another soldier demanded, pulling his axe free of the orc at his feet. The small clearing was littered with bodies, not all of them orcish. It had been a nasty little skirmish, and the branches above were too close for the Wildhammers to bring their gryphons to bear so it had been entirely up to Lothar and his men. They had won, but only because the small band of orcs had apparently wandered away from the rest of the orc forces.

  "Too many," Lothar replied absently. He grinned at his men then. "But fewer now, eh?" They smiled back and Lothar felt a surge of pride. Some of these men were from Lordaeron, some from Stromgarde, one or two from Gilneas and even Alterac, and a few had come with him from Stormwind. But over the past few weeks they had set their regional differences aside. They were now Alliance soldiers, and fought together as brothers, and he was proud of them. If the rest of the army meshed as well as this one group did, there was hope for them all, both in this war and in the peace he hoped would follow afterward.

  Then he caught a flicker of movement off to one side. "Be ready," he warned, dropping his visor back down and sinking into a wary crouch, his sword rising to point toward the motion. But the figure that burst through the trees was not an orc but a human, one of his own soldiers.

  "Sir!" the man gasped, clearly winded. He did not seem harmed, however, and his sword was still by his side. "Messages, sir!" Then Lothar realized the man had a scrap of parchment in one hand, and was holding it out to him.

  "Thank you," he said, taking the message. A soldier handed the messenger a waterskin, which he gratefully accepted. But Lothar was busy reading the words scribed onto the small scrap, and the warriors around him tensed as they saw his jaw tighten beneath his helm.

  "What is it, sir?" one of them asked finally, as Lothar glanced up, balling the parchment between finger and thumb and flicking it away like a troublesome insect. "Is there a problem?"

  Lothar nodded, still digesting the information he had just received. "The Horde has made its way to Lordaeron," he said softly, eliciting a gasp from several soldiers. "They are probably attacking the capital even now."

  "What can we do?" One of the men—one of those from Lordaeron, Lothar remembered—asked urgently. "We need to set out right away!"

  But Lothar shook his head. "There's too much distance between us," he told the soldier sadly. "We'd never reach it in time." He sighed. "No. We need to finish our work here, to make sure the orcs they left in the Hinterlands are dead or driven off. We cannot allow the Horde to retain a foothold here, where they could then sweep back up or down to anywhere else on the continent."

  His men nodded, though they did not look pleased about the prospect of wandering the woods seeking strays while their friends and families faced the rest of the Horde alone. Lothar could hardly blame them. "Turalyon and the rest of the Alliance army are already on their way," he assured them, making several warriors look up hopefully. "He will come to the city's aid." He gripped his sword tightly. "And when we are done here we will march to Capital City and mop up any orcs that have fled his attack."

  The men cheered at that, and Lothar smiled though he still felt cold. He knew they liked the idea both of helping after all and of the Alliance being so victorious all that was left was the cleanup. He hoped it would be that easy.

  "Enough distractions," he warned his men after allowing them a few seconds. "Let's make sure there aren't any other orc bands near here, and then we'll head back to Aerie Peak to regroup." The soldiers obediently nodded and raised their weapons, falling into rough ranks. Lothar took the lead, and together they set off into the trees again, the messenger walking in their midst.

  "Here they come!"

  King Terenas glanced down and grimaced. The orc Horde had crossed the lake—sharp—sighted archers assured him they had built rough bridges but from here it had looked as if they'd simply swarmed across the water like ants—and were now rapidly approaching the city's walls. He was still amazed by their sheer numbers. And from what he could see up here on the ramparts, they were massive brutes as well, easily as big as the largest of men and broader, with powerful muscles and large bestial heads. He did not see any siege weapons, at least, other than a thick log that was clearly intended for a battering ram, but the orcs carried what he thought were large hammers, axes, and thick swords, and he was sure they had ropes and grapples as well.

  Well, Capital City 's walls were as sturdy as ever. No foe had ever breached its defenses, and Terenas was determined to maintain that record.

  They had not been able to prepare fully, of course. The people had been easy enough to gather, since most lived within the walls already
. Livestock had been more problematic and some animals had simply been abandoned to their fate, as had all but the smallest and most precious possessions. The guards had done their best to make sure everyone and everything was inside before closing and sealing the gates, but most people had fled with little more than the clothes on their backs and whatever tools and other possessions they'd had to hand. Their homes would surely be destroyed by the Horde, and Terenas knew it would take some time to rebuild them afterward. Assuming they drove the orcs back and were able to leave the city once more.

  He glanced along the ramparts, where his guards and soldiers stood ready. So few men to defend such large walls! But most of his soldiers had marched off with Lothar and the rest of the Alliance. Nor did Terenas regret that decision. The Horde had needed to be stopped, and Lothar had needed every soldier that could be spared for his army. Of course, he had not expected the Horde to strike at them here, and certainly not without the Alliance forces either blocking their path or marching after them to aid in the city's defense. But even if Capital City fell, if the Alliance won in the end it would be a small price to pay.

  That did not mean he was about to surrender the city, however. Terenas glanced down again, and judged the orcs close enough now. He could see their tusks from here, and the tassels and bones and medals that hung around many of their necks and arms and heads, clearly trophies of previous battles. Well, they would find this fight more challenging than their previous encounters. No matter what happened, the Horde would remember this fight.

  "Hot oil!" Terenas shouted, and down the line Morev and others nodded. They tipped the large cauldrons over the ramparts, letting the boiling oil pour down in sheets just beyond the walls. The leading orcs had almost reached the walls by then, and the oil spilled across them, drenching them utterly. Many screamed in pain as it burned away their flesh, and the entire front rank crumpled, writhing and twitching. A few staggered away but most did not get up again.