Tides of Darkness (world of warcraf)

by Aaron Rosenberg

  "Our thanks," one of the dwarves proclaimed, singling Lothar out. "I am Muradin Bronzebeard, brother to King Magni, and the dwarves of Ironforge are in your debt." His thick beard's hue matched his name, and his axe was notched from many battles.

  "Anduin Lothar, Commander of the Alliance," Lothar introduced himself, offering his hand. Muradin's grasp was as strong as he'd expected. "We are happy to help. Our goal is to rid all our lands of the Horde and their influence."

  "Aye, as it should be," Muradin agreed, nodding. He frowned. " Alliance? It was you who sent missives to us months ago, from Lordaeron?"

  "Indeed." Lothar realized King Terenas must have sent messengers here as well as Quel'Thalas. The king of Lordaeron had apparently left no potential ally untouched. "We have banded together for this common cause."

  "And whither are ye bound now?" a second dwarf asked, stepping close enough to join the conversation. His face was less lined than Muradin's but he had similar features and a matching beard.

  "My brother Brann," Muradin explained.

  "We are following the remainder of the Horde," Lothar answered. "Many of them have already fallen to us, both on land and by sea, and we now seek to vanquish the rest and end this war."

  The brothers looked at each and nodded. "We'll be accompanying ye," Muradin announced. "Many of our kin will be after combing these mountains, reclaiming our ancestral strongholds and making sure no orcs remain within Khaz Modan." He grinned. "But we'll bring some lads and join your Alliance to make sure these orcs dinna trouble any of us again."

  "We welcome your help," Lothar said honestly. He had met dwarves once or twice before, back in Stormwind, and had always been impressed by their strength and endurance. And if these Bronzebeard dwarves were as good in combat as their Wildhammer cousins, a contingent of them would be valuable indeed.

  "Good. We'll be sending someone to inform our brother, and to catch up to us with supplies." Muradin shouldered his axe and glanced around. "Which way did the Horde go?"

  Lothar glanced at Khadgar, who grinned. Then he shrugged, smiled, and pointed south.

  "They be heading to Blackrock Spire," Kurdran announced, hopping down from his gryphon near where Lothar and his lieutenants sat in a ring around a small campfire. He and the other Wildhammers with them had been scouting and had just returned to report.

  "Blackrock Spire? You're sure?" Muradin asked. Turalyon had noticed that the Wildhammers and the Bronzebeards did not get along well. No, that wasn't quite fair. They were like quarrelsome siblings, he thought—they liked each other but could not resist arguing and trying to show each other up.

  "Of course I'm sure!" Kurdran snapped, and Sky'ree cawed a soft warning beside him. "I followed them, didn't I?" Then a sly look came over his face. "Or would you rather be seeing for yourself?" Muradin, and Brann beside him, blanched and stepped back a pace, drawing an evil chuckle from Kurdran. The Bronzebeards were as fond of flying as the Wildhammers were of going underground, which was not at all.

  "Blackrock Spire," Lothar mused. "That's the fortress on the mountain summit?" The others nodded. "A strong position," he admitted. "Good vantage all around, solid fortifications, easy to defend from the surrounding mountains, probably easy to control the routes in and out." He shook his head. "Whoever their leader is, he knows what he's doing. This won't be easy."

  "Aye, and it be cursed as well," Muradin added. "Well, it is," the dwarf continued when the others looked at him, though Turalyon noticed both Brann and Kurdran were nodding. "Our Dark Iron cousins" — he paused to spit as if their very name was distasteful—"built that fortress, but something far darker lives there now, beneath the surface." He and the other dwarves shuddered.

  "If there were something else there, it didn't disturb the orcs," Lothar pointed out. "They'll fall back there, and getting past their defenses will be a problem."

  "But we can do it," Turalyon surprised himself by saying. "We have the numbers and the skill to take them down."

  Lothar smiled at him. "Yes, we can do it," he agreed. "It will be challenging, but anything worth doing usually is." He was about to say something else when they heard the unmistakable sound of plate mail creaking, and turned to see a man striding toward them. His armor was battered but still gleamed and on its breastplate was the same symbol Turalyon wore, the image of the Silver Hand. As the man drew closer to them, the light of the campfire shone off his flame—red hair and beard.

  "Uther!" Lothar stood and offered his hand to the Paladin, who clasped it firmly.

  "My lord," Uther answered. He clasped Turalyon's hand as well, and nodded to the others. "We came as soon as we could."

  "Lordaeron is clean?" Khadgar asked as Uther lowered himself onto a rock beside them. He looked tired.

  "It is," he replied, quiet pride shining in his storm—blue eyes. "My fellows and I have made sure of it. No orcs remain within that land, nor are there any in the mountains alongside." For a second Turalyon felt a strange pang, as if he should have been with the rest of his order. But he had been assigned a different task by Faol himself, and was doing his duty the same as Uther and the others.

  "Excellent." Lothar smiled. "And you have arrived at a good time, Sir Uther. We have just learned the orcs' final position, and we will reach it within—?" He turned to the dwarven brothers next to him. They were the most accustomed to this region and would best know the distances involved.

  "Five days," Brann replied after pondering a moment. "Provided they have left us no surprises along the way." He glanced at his brother and nodded. "And if ye're going to Blackrock, we'll be going with you. We'll not leave ye to face that lot alone."

  "I dinna see any ambushes," Kurdran said, frowning as if the question were a slight to his scouting ability. "The entire Horde, such as it is, is moving in a solid mass back to the Spire." He glanced at Lothar, as if sensing the Champion's next question. "Aye, the Wildhammers will stay with ye as well. And altogether we outnumber them, though not by a large margin," he confirmed.

  "I don't need a large margin," Lothar replied. "Just a fair fight." His face was stern. "Five days, then," he told the rest of them. "In five days we finish this."

  To Turalyon the words had a ring of finality, even of doom. He just hoped the doom was not their own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY—ONE

  "The humans are here!"

  Doomhammer glanced up from his reverie, annoyed at the fear he heard in Tharbek's voice. When had his fierce subchieftain become so weak?

  "I know they are here," he growled in reply, standing and glancing behind the other orc. They were standing upon a rough ledge that had been carved from the mountaintop, in front of the fortress itself and high above the rocky plain, and from here he could see the remaining Horde spread below. The last time he had had this vantage his warriors had carpeted the plain below, leaving not a hint of the rock beneath. Now there were large patches of black rock between the green and brown, and he could pick out each family where it grouped together, slightly apart from the rest. When had his Horde grown so thin? What had he led them to? Why had he not listened to Durotan sooner and heeded his old friend's words? Everything he had been warned about was coming true!

  "What will we do?" Tharbek demanded, stepping up behind him. "We do not have the numbers to repel them, not anymore."

  Doomhammer glared at his second so fiercely the other orc backed away. It was true that they were fewer now, and that their forces were no longer so numerous as to blanket the world. But they were still orcs, by the ancestors! "What do we do?" he hissed at his lieutenant, pulling his hammer from its place on his back. "We fight, of course!"

  Turning away from the quivering Tharbek, Doomhammer stepped farther onto the ledge. "Hear me, my people!" he bellowed, raising his hammer high. Some turned to look up but others did not, and that incensed him. He struck the cliff face a mighty blow with his weapon, and the resounding crack brought him the Horde's immediate and undivided attention.

  "Hear me!" he shouted again. "I k
now that we have suffered defeats and setbacks, and our numbers are sorely diminished! I know that Gul'dan's treachery has cost us dearly! But still we are orcs! Still we are the Horde! And our footsteps shall shake this world!" A cheer rose from the warriors below, but it was ragged and weak.

  "The humans have followed us to this place," he continued, spitting each word as if it disgusted him—which it did. "They think us beaten! They think we came here because we were fleeing their might, as a dog would flee its master! But they are wrong!" He raised his hammer again. "We came here because this is our stronghold, our place of strength. We came here because from here we can spill forth once more, covering this land with our steps. We came here so that we might pour out upon them again, and make them once more tremble at our name!" This time the cheer was louder, and Doomhammer let it wash over him. The warriors were standing and waving their weapons aloft, and he could tell they were getting worked up again. Good.

  "We will not wait for them to come upon us," he told his people. "We will not sit here idly and let them dictate this battle. No. We are orcs! We are the Horde! We will bring the fight to them, and they will learn to regret ever pursuing us here! And when we have crushed them beneath us, we will march back over their corpses and once more claim their lands as our own!" He held his hammer over him with both hands, swinging it about above his head, and the cheer now shook the rocks and the very stone upon which he stood. Doomhammer felt a smile crease his face, and exulted in it. These were his people! They would not go down sniveling and pleading! If they fell, it would be in battle, and with blood on their hands.

  "Ready the warriors of our clan," he told the stunned Tharbek. "My elite guard and I will lead the charge ourselves. The rest of the Horde will follow." Turning, Doomhammer glanced at the bulky figures that stood in the shadows, waiting. Each of them straightened and nodded as he caught their gaze, and Doomhammer nodded in return. These were his elite guard, and they were all ogres.

  Doomhammer was a proper orc and had been raised to hate the ogres, but these were different. They were more intelligent than most of their kind, for one, but they were warriors and not warlocks. Equally as important, they were intensely loyal to him and him alone. He knew they admired his strength and courage—they seemed to see him as a small ogre himself, and had pledged themselves to his personal command. He, in turn, had come to respect their strength and rely upon their support. He knew they would die for him if necessary, and was surprised to realize he would give his life for them as well.

  And now they would all risk their lives, as the Horde's victory hung in the balance.

  At least the portal was safe. Rend and Maim Blackhand had survived the battle with Gul'dan and an attack by the Alliance fleet, along with some of their clanmates. They had sent a scout to Doomhammer, finding him on his way here from Khaz Modan, and he had ordered them to join the rest of their clan at the portal. He still did not trust the brothers but they proven themselves loyal to the Horde, at least, and he needed strong warriors to protect their access to Draenor. Not that he would ever consider fleeing, even if the battle turned against them.

  He nodded at his ogres again. Then he made his way off the ledge, leading down toward the plain below, and the battle that awaited them.

  The Alliance was not prepared for the orcs to attack. Just as Doomhammer had hoped, the humans had positioned themselves for a siege, expecting to wait the orcs out and take out any lone warriors foolish enough to show themselves beyond the protective cliffs that ringed Blackrock Mountain itself. Doomhammer's charge took them completely by surprise.

  "Orcs!" a soldier shouted, running back to where Lothar and his lieutenants stood. "They've overrun our position!"

  "What?" Lothar kicked his steed into motion and galloped across the black valley where he had stationed the bulk of the Alliance troops. Turalyon and the others followed close behind.

  Sure enough, as he approached the front lines he heard the unmistakable sounds of battle. Then he saw them. They were orcs, but orcs like he had never seen. These were massive creatures, with thick arms and stout legs, and their hair was worn in spikes that rose above them like bird crests or horse manes. The orcs had no armor, wearing only loincloths, shoulderpads, and furry boots, and wielded their weapons with mad abandon, hacking and stabbing everything within their reach. Their green skin was heavily tattooed, and most of them had jagged bits of metal or small bits of what looked like bone shoved through ears, noses, brows, lips, and even nipples. They were savages, and the men were falling back before their frothing attack.

  "Uther!" Lothar shouted, and the Paladin strode forward. He lowered his sword, indicating the orcs, and that was enough. The Paladin nodded, beckoning the other members of the Silver Hand to follow him as he lowered his helm and raised his warhammer.

  "By the Holy Light!" Uther shouted, a glow springing up around him and his weapon. "We shall not suffer such beasts to live!" And he dove into the fray, his hammer slamming down upon the nearest orc's head and shattering its skull.

  The sky here was always thick with clouds and soot, casting heavy shadows and blood—tinged light upon everything. But not now. The clouds parted and a beam of pure sunlight lanced down, limning Uther as he waded into the assembled Horde. The Paladin became a figure of pure light, awesome and terrifying, his every blow crushing orc warriors left and right.

  The other Paladins joined him, his light suffusing them as well. The Silver Hand had expanded in the months since the war had begun, and now numbered twelve under Uther's command and not counting Turalyon. Those twelve waded into the combat, their hammers and axes and swords glowing with their faith, and the rest of the Alliance soldiers pulled back to give them space.

  The orcs turned and faced their new foes. It was a brutal battle, savages versus zealots, shining mail against tattoos and piercings. The orcs were strong, tough, and crazed enough to not notice pain. But the Paladins were filled with righteous anger and the power of their faith, and their holy auras caused more than one orc to turn away when attacking. With this advantage the Paladins ringed the savage orcs, cutting down one after another until the last lay dead at their feet.

  "Good work," Lothar was saying when another sentry ran up to him. What now? he wondered wearily. Another attack?

  "Another attack!" the soldier gasped, echoing his thought. "This time to the west!"

  "Damn them," Lothar muttered, spurring his horse again and racing toward the new location. They were smart, he had to give them that. He had not expected an attack and his men were not ready for it. Most of them had relaxed, counting on a long slow siege, and some had even removed their armor, though he had ordered them to stay alert just in case. Now they were paying the price for their laxity. And if the orcs were able to weaken enough spots along their line with these sudden attacks, they could break through and escape into the rest of the mountain range. It could take months, even years to track all of them down, and that would give the Horde time enough to rebuild and try again.

  He could not allow that to happen.

  He burst upon the new battle, trampling an orc that did not move aside quickly enough, and then wheeled his horse around and reined in, studying the situation. This was a much larger attack than the last one, a full three score of them or more. Even more daunting were the six ogres in their midst. They fought savagely but not as mindlessly as the last attackers, and showed some sense of tactics. Particularly the giant orc in their midst, whose long hair hung in ornamented braids that danced as he swung a massive black hammer left and right, crushing Alliance soldiers with each blow. Something about the way the giant moved, quickly but carefully, even gracefully despite the massive black plate armor encasing him, struck Lothar. This, he somehow knew, was their leader. He was urging his horse into the fray when the giant glanced up and looked right at him. Those eyes were not the glowing red Lothar had grown accustomed to seeing in his foes—they were gray, and full of intelligence. And they widened slightly, as if in recognition.

 
There! Doomhammer grinned as he studied the large human perched on the horse nearby. That one, with the shield and the enormous sword and the clever sea—blue eyes. He was their leader. He was the one Doomhammer had been hoping to find. If he could take out this man, the army's resolve would crumble.

  "Move aside!" Doomhammer bellowed, smashing a human soldier in his path and kicking one of his own orcs out of the way as well. The man, he saw, was charging into the fray as well, laying about him with that sword, barely looking at the carnage he was creating. The human leader's eyes were locked on him.

  Combat raged all around him, but Doomhammer kept his own gaze fixed on his foe. He stalked forward, his hammer clearing space through the crush of bodies, not caring if he struck orc or human. All that mattered was reaching that man. The human was only slightly more careful, not actively striking any of his own people but expecting them to dodge his horse and his blows all the same. Finally there were no more warriors between them, and Doomhammer faced the man at close range.

  Mounted, the human had the advantage. Doomhammer solved that problem at once. His hammer arced out, its massive stone head smashing full force into the horse's head. The steed collapsed, blood pouring from its shattered skull, its legs twitching. The human did not fall. Instead he kicked free of his stirrups and leaped to one side as his horse fell, then hurdled the body to confront Doomhammer directly. The rest of the battle faded away as the two leaders raised their weapons and collided without words, each intent upon only one thing—the other's death.

  It was a titanic battle. Lothar was a large, powerful man, easily as big and as strong as most orc warriors. But Doomhammer was larger still, and stronger, and younger. What Lothar lacked in youth and speed, however, he made up for in skill and experience.

  Both wore heavy plate armor, the battered mail of Stormwind versus the black plate of the Horde. And both carried weapons lesser warriors could never have wielded, the glittering rune—etched blade of Stormwind and the black—stone hammer of the Doomhammer line. And both were determined to win, no matter the cost.