Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War (12 page)

T
he tauren and trolls had continued their march eastward as night yielded its reign to dawn. They had given the Alliance’s Forward Command a wide berth and so far had met with no resistance. Forcing their way through the Overgrowth, they found the remains of an encampment, with the campfire extinguished but the coals still warm. There was no way to tell who had built it. Horde and Alliance both were in the area, and there was always someone wandering from one place to another. The Cataclysm had caused upheaval in lives as well as land. They continued cautiously, but Baine was beginning to wonder… was it possible that their approach was yet undiscovered?

They found a small sacred site of the tauren, and Baine called a halt. “This is a sign,” Baine said. “Here is where our brothers and sisters were released from their bodies. Here we will pause, to prepare our hearts for battle and our souls for possible death. Our troll brethren, this is not your ritual, but you are welcome to approach here, to contemplate life and death and those who have gone before. And,” he added, “we will ask our ancestors to bless us, and to guide us to do what is right and best for our people.”

Baine did not suggest asking the ancestors to bless what they were about to do, for he was not at all certain they would approve. He did not think Cairne Bloodhoof would. There was a mixture of fierce battle anticipation and unease in the gathering of tauren and trolls; Baine
knew his people well and could sense their divided loyalties. Loyalties that were in conflict in their leader’s heart as well.

After a few moments—where some chanted, some knelt in prayer, and others simply stood respectfully—it was time to move forward. They were on the last leg of their troubled journey. The Great Divide yawned on their left, and the path curved slightly and bore them up into gently rolling hills.

“Looks like we caught a break,” Vol’jin said.

“I don’t think any runners made it through to warn them,” Baine said.

Vol’jin peered up at him from his raptor. “Dey destroyed Camp Taurajo, mon,” he said.

“Yes,” said Baine. “They took down a military target. And their general refused to slaughter civilians. He could have given the order to massacre everyone. But he didn’t.”

Vol’jin’s eyes narrowed. “Will you be showin’ da same courtesy to dese Alliance?”

“I do not think there are any civilians in Northwatch Hold,” Baine said. He did not add that he was fairly certain that Garrosh would order him to kill any prisoners he took. Yes, it was a military target, and Garrosh was displaying good tactical leadership in wanting to see it broken.

But Garrosh wasn’t truly interested in Northwatch as a military target. To him, rendering it useless to the Alliance was not so much a strategy as a stepping stone. His true goal was Theramore. There were plenty of Alliance soldiers and sailors there. But there was also an inn. Merchants and their families dwelt there. And so did one who had never shown anything but friendship to Baine Bloodhoof.

They rounded a curve in the road. The view opened up, and Baine could see the gray and white stone of the towers of Northwatch. Just as he lifted a hand to call a halt to prepare for the rush toward the hold, the quiet of the Barrens erupted with the sound of gunfire. The trolls and tauren responded immediately, aiming their own guns and arrows up at the Alliance soldiers who were attacking from the hills.

Baine was furious. He should have expected this, but he had
permitted himself to be lulled into a false sense of safety. And now his people fell in their tracks, paying the price for his foolishness.

“Forward!” he shouted, his voice carrying, fueled by his anger. “Shaman! Interrupt their fire!”

The shaman obeyed while the rest of the tauren and the trolls surged forward as swiftly as they could. The Alliance riflemen found themselves knocked off their feet, buffeted by sudden winds, or crying out in startled pain as their clothing caught fire. In the chaos that followed as the riflemen tried to regroup, the Mulgore contingent had reached the path to the hold and was engaged in fierce battle.

•   •   •

“The tauren are here!”

The cry was caught up and swept through the ranks of the orcs who were bearing down on the Alliance stronghold from the north. Cheers arose, and Garrosh, swinging Gorehowl as he himself led the charge, spared a moment to give Malkorok a fierce grin. He could hear the sound of massive stones striking the already damaged walls of the hold, and he threw back his head and screamed his delight.

He wished that he had done this sooner. The Cataclysm had torn down some walls of the fortress, and the foolish Alliance had not made the effort to properly restore them. Now they would regret it bitterly and pay for that neglect with blood.

The orcs stormed over the makeshift bridges of boulders and planks. A guard charged toward Garrosh, wielding a pike. He was human, strong and deft and knowledgeable with his weapon, but he could not stand against the Kor’kron encircling the warchief. Screaming their battle cries, the orcs descended upon him, hacking with swords and slamming maces against his metal-encased body. A blow landed with a crunch that was audible even amid the sounds of the drums, battle, and cannon fire, and the guard crumpled. The Kor’kron and Garrosh ran over his fallen body, though Garrosh spared the corpse a nod of approval.

The Rageroar had told them all the weaknesses of the hold. Garrosh knew exactly where to direct his people. The first wave was
doing well, surging up the paths to the courtyard areas, and Garrosh scrambled to a higher viewpoint to assess the situation.

To his left, the vessels sent by blood elves, goblins, and Forsaken were doing their jobs exactly as planned. Despite what sounded like continuous cannon fire from the Alliance, several dinghies had made it to the shore, their occupants scrambling toward their enemies and cutting them down without mercy.

To his right, the tauren and trolls were ruthlessly hammering at the walls. Even as Garrosh watched, one of them crumbled, and a wave of brown-furred and green- and blue-skinned bodies flowed over.

And straight ahead, the orcs—his orcs, his people, the true and original members of the Horde—slaughtered and whooped and laughed.

It would take perhaps an hour to finish the job, to penetrate so deeply into the hold that no clever ruse or strategy by Admiral Aubrey could ever win it back. Garrosh did not wish to wait that long. His gaze darted over the scene. The vast bulk of his people had plunged ahead. Only a few remained here, at the outskirts of the battle, picking off the guards who were attempting to keep the fighting outside of the hold. They would not need the makeshift bridges anymore.

It was time to deliver the final blow and bring the battle to a swift, decisive victory.

•   •   •

A few feet below Garrosh, Malkorok fought three guards: two humans, a male and a female, and one dwarf. Most orcs favored larger weapons—two-handed broadswords, massive axes or hammers. The Blackrock orc’s weapons of choice for the battle were instead two small but exquisitely swift and sharp axes. As the three charged him, thinking to enclose him in a circle, Malkorok laughed with glee. “Death to the Alliance!” he shouted, crouching and grinning. Then he exploded into motion, moving much faster than the enemy had expected. The axes became a blur, two glittering slices of death. Before she could even realize what was happening, the hapless human female was nearly sliced in two. Malkorok did not slow, whirling around and following the arc of the first axe with the second. The dwarf got in a
blow, but his sword clanged uselessly off of Malkorok’s armor. Malkorok buried an axe deep into the space between neck and shoulder, and the dwarf crumpled. Snarling, the orc turned, again whirling the axes, his lack of two fingers not hampering him at all. The human male guard brought his sword up to parry, but he could only block one weapon. Uttering a cry, Malkorok lifted the second bloodied blade high and brought it plunging down into the man’s chest.

He turned, eyes darting about for his next target, but immediately looked up as his name was called by his warchief.

“The shaman!” shouted Garrosh. “Send them in!”

Malkorok grinned and lifted a fist to show that he had heard. Garrosh nodded once, then grasped Gorehowl. Throwing back his head, he uttered a bellow and dropped down from his vantage point. He leaped onto a boulder in the water and sprang from that to several unevenly placed boards, and then to the shoreline. Garrosh Hellscream had uttered the last command he would need to in this battle, and Malkorok saw how happy he was to finally be standing shoulder to shoulder with his brethren and using his father’s famous weapon to slaughter Alliance.

Malkorok reached out, grabbed the nearest Kor’kron, and repeated the order. The other orc nodded and raced back toward the north, where most of the shaman were waiting. They had been held in reserve for this moment.

Within minutes, several shaman were hurrying toward the battle front. Most of them were orcs. They wore not the simple white or earth-brown robes common to their ranks, but more ominous-looking garments that made them more akin to warlocks, and they moved with barely contained excitement.

Heavily armored warriors escorted them, forcing their way through clusters of frantically battling Horde and Alliance. The shaman made no effort to join the fight. They were focused on the boulders, covered with water and mud, several yards ahead.

As they approached, the shaman slowed, calming their breathing. They eyed one another, sharing secret smiles, then lifted their hands and uttered the commands that would cause the elements to obey.

Malkorok knew what was to come, but he paused a moment in the battle to watch, his heart swelling with orcish pride. There were at least two dozen boulders in the water. They had enabled the troops and the heavier weapons to cross, and now their second purpose was about to be fulfilled.

Before Malkorok’s eager gaze, the boulders quivered. Their hue turned from the dark red and brown of simple stone to a redder shade, then a mottled orange one, and they began… to
melt
. But the water did not cool them or stop this change, turning the magma back into rock as nature usually would. Instead, the water boiled and steamed away, as if the element of water itself was recoiling in fear from what was now in its depths. The stones continued to shudder and pulse as they lost shape and became liquid, their heat so powerful that even the shaman who controlled them were forced to turn their heads away or take a step back.

A tendril shot out from one of the rocks. A second tendril followed, then another, and another. The other boulders followed suit, the tendrils shortening, becoming denser, sprouting fingers and toes. A head burst through the top part of the rock and a mouth gaped open. Small, glowing eyes looked about, down at the rock-body, at the shaman who controlled that body. One of the creatures growled, turning slowly around, reaching out for a black-leather-clad orc, who raised a commanding hand. The molten giant, for such it was, cringed back, muttering, then began to move forward. It would obey.

Even the orcs, who knew to expect this, seemed awestruck by the sight.
As well they should be,
thought Malkorok.

“Alliance!” he cried. “Behold the power that Garrosh Hellscream controls! Behold, and tremble, and die!”

•   •   •

Baine swung his mace, fighting off two soldiers with pikes. All around him, the air was full of sound: the crackle of gunfire, the booming of the cannons, the singing of arrows being loosed, and over and around it all, the cries of Horde and Alliance fighting, killing, and dying. One of the soldiers lunged toward him. Baine moved more swiftly than
the man had bargained for, and the pike stabbed only empty air. Baine’s mace slammed into him as he stumbled, and the human fell. The other Northwatch soldier thought he had an opening, but Baine’s mace snapped the pike’s shaft as if it were a twig and, on the backswing, crunched the soldier’s skull as if it were an acorn.

Baine shook his head, regret filling him. At least he offered a swift death.

It was then that the sounds changed. A new one was added—a deep bellow of anger, as if the earth itself had been given voice. Baine’s ears pricked up at once and his head turned to follow the sound. His eyes widened. Before he could speak, though, another voice rose, loud and full of righteous anger.

“In the name of the Earth Mother!” cried Kador Cloudsong. “Garrosh! What have you done?”

“What are these—things?” Baine demanded.

Kador turned to him, his fur bristling with outrage. “They are molten giants,” he said, “powerful fire elementals that do not work willingly with the shaman but must be forced to obey. The Earth Mother is angry that her children are so used. The Earthen Ring has forbidden such things. They fear it could cause further instability in the earth.”

“Like the Cataclysm,” Baine murmured.

The aptly named molten giants were seemingly reveling in destruction. They strode about, towering over both Horde and Alliance, swinging their arms and smashing whatever had the misfortune to be in their way.

Baine had seen enough. “Retreat!” he cried. “Retreat! Fall back, tauren of Mulgore!” He had honored his word and brought his braves into battle. They had fought with courage. He had fulfilled his obligation to Garrosh and would not stand by and watch a single one of his people fall to these monsters in the name of the warchief’s foolish—and dangerous—arrogance.

“Behold and die!” The Horde took up the cry, their bloodlust renewed by something approaching giddy gleefulness.

•   •   •

The Alliance defenders, as Garrosh predicted, were defeated in that moment. They were terrified by nearly a dozen molten-rock monsters that were bearing down on them. Many fell beneath a simple footfall. Others died as, with an almost casual blow, the remaining walls were reduced to rubble.

“Stand firm, Alliance soldiers!” The cry came from one of the towers. Laughing softly, Malkorok glanced up to see the human, wearing an admiral’s hat, desperately and futilely attempting to rally his troops. It was foolish, but Malkorok could not help but respect the doomed human. He, at least, would die with honor.