Aaron Rosenberg - Tides of Darkness

Just then the lookout shouted down. "Admiral! There's something heading toward us—and it's coming from the air!"

Proudmoore looked up and saw the sailor, pale and shaking, staring out to the north. He trained his spyglass in that direction, and soon saw what must have sparked the lookout's cry. Small dark specks were heading toward them out of the clouds. They were too far away to make out clearly, but he could tell there were several of them and that they were approaching fast. He didn't know what the Horde had that could fly, but something in his gut warned Proudmoore this battle was far from over.

Derek Proudmoore glanced up from where he stood beside his pilot. "What was that?" he asked the lookout, but the man had fallen back into the crow's nest and appeared to be shaking too badly to respond. Afraid the man had had some sort of fit, Derek grabbed the nearest rigging and swung himself up and over to the central mast. From there he caught the central rigging line and scaled it to the main spar, which he walked to the crow's nest.

"Gerard?" he asked, peering in at the sailor who was curled up there. "Are you all right?"

Gerard looked up at him, tears in his eyes, but only shook his head and huddled more tightly.

"What is it?" Derek climbed over the side and into the crow's nest proper, crouching beside the sailor. He had known Gerard for years and trusted the man implicitly. But now that he was here he could see that Gerard was not sick at all. He was terrified, scared beyond any ability to speak. And the thought of a brave sailor, a veteran of many battles, being that frightened sent a chill down Derek's spine.

"Did you see something?" he asked gently. Gerard nodded, squeezing his eyes shut as if to erase whatever it was from his memory. "Where?" For a second the lookout shook his head, but finally he pointed a shaky hand to the north.

"You rest," Derek told him softly, Then he stood and turned to see what had frightened his friend and crewmate so—and nearly collapsed himself at the sight before him.

There, swooping down out of the clouds, was a dragon, its scales gleaming blood—red in the early morning light. Behind it came a second, and a third, and then several more, until at least a dozen of the massive creatures flew together, their leathery wings beating hard to keep them aloft and drive them closer to their target.

The fleet.

Derek barely noticed the anguish plain in the lead dragon's great golden eyes, or the green—skinned figure perched on its back. His mind was too busy calculating the impact the creatures could have upon this battle. Each one was larger than any ship but a destroyer, considerably faster and more agile, and airborne. Those massive claws could probably tear through hulls with ease, or snap masts like twigs. He had to warn the rest of the fleet—he had to warn his father!

Turning, Derek leaned over the crow's nest to shout down to his pilot. A movement caught his eye as he shifted, however, and he glanced up again. The lead dragon was close now, close enough for Derek to see the grin of the orc on its back, and it opened its long mouth wide. Derek saw a long, serpentine tongue surrounded by sharp triangular teeth almost as tall as he was. Then he saw a glow deep within the dragon's maw. It rushed forward, expanding as it came, and suddenly the world burst around him. He did not even have time to scream before the flames consumed him, and his body crumbled as it fell, burned to mere ash.

In a single swoop the dragons destroyed the Third Fleet, all six ships. Everyone on board perished. And then the dragon riders brought their mounts back around, turning them toward the first fleet and the ships that stood between the orcs and freedom.

"Damn them! Damn them all!" Admiral Proudmoore clung to the railing so hard he thought either his fingers would break or they would gouge out chunks of wood. He watched the last traces of the Third Fleet's destroyer sink beneath the waves, mere cinders upon the sea. He knew there was no chance Derek or any of the other crew had survived.

But grief would come later, if he lived that long. Pushing aside all thoughts of his eldest son, Proudmoore concentrated on the tactical implications. The north was now open once more. The orc ships could simply row on, while the dragons harried his own fleet and forced them to give way. If that happened the orcs would be able to land again at the Hillsbrad or at Southshore, and could rejoin the rest of the Horde. And he would have failed.

That was unacceptable.

"Bring us around!" he ordered, startling his pilot into motion. "I want half our ships sweeping north and blocking their path again! The rest stay where they are and continue the attack!"

The sailor nodded. "But—the dragons," he began, though his hands were already turning the great wheel and bringing the ship around.

"They are foes like any other," Proudmoore replied sharply. "We will simply target them as we would enemy ships."

His men nodded, and jumped to obey his orders. Sails were furled as the ship turned and tacked into the wind. Cannons were reloaded and aimed at an upward angle, with blocks and other objects jammed beneath them to lift them up. Crossbows were reloaded and casks of gunpowder made ready. When the first dragon soared toward them, Proudmoore drew his own sword and raised it high, then brought it down sharply.

"Attack!"

It was a valiant effort—but it failed miserably. The dragon dodged each cannonball, which then sank into the sea. It knocked the casks aside with its wings, and simply ignored the flaming crossbow bolts, which clattered harmlessly from its scales. The ferocity of the attack did make it pull back, however, giving Proudmoore time to ponder other methods.

Fortunately he was spared the need to come up with anything.

As he considered the merits of using ropes and chains to try binding or at least tripping the dragon, several new figures dropped from the clouds. These were considerably smaller than the dragon, perhaps twice the size of a man, with long feathered wings and long tufted tails and proud beaks. And on the back of each of these creatures rode what looked like a short man dressed in strange feathered armor and covered in tattoos and wielding a massive hammer.

"Wildhammers, attack!" Kurdran Wildhammer stood in his saddle and hurled his stormhammer, catching the nearest dragon rider in the chest. The surprised orc did not have time to react but toppled from his own saddle, his chest crushed, both weapon and reins falling from lifeless hands as his body disappeared beneath the waves. His dragon roared in surprise and rage, audible even over the fading thunderclap, but the sound turned to squeals of pain as Sky'ree's sharp claws cut deep into the dragons' flank, slicing neatly through scales and drawing dark blood. Iomhar was beside him, and his own gryphon tore a large chunk from the dragon's left wing with beak and claws, causing the dragon to list dramatically. Then Farand came in on the far side, throwing his own hammer, which struck the dragon a resounding blow to the head. Its eyes lost focus and it fell, sending up a huge wave as it struck the water. It did not resurface.

Kurdran flew over to the largest ship. "We've come to help!" he shouted down at the slender older man standing on the bridge. The man nodded and saluted with the sword in his hand. "We'll handle these beasties," Kurdran assured him. "You take care o' the ships."

Admiral Proudmoore nodded again, and favored him with a tight, nasty grin. "Oh, we will take care of them, sure enough," he told the dwarf. Then he turned back to his pilot. "Keep moving," he ordered. "We'll cut them off as planned, and then tighten the net. I don't want to see a single orc ship escape!"

The Wildhammers attacked the dragons in a fury, killing several and driving the rest back. Proudmoore's remaining ships circled in and began picking off the orc fleet from every side, using cannon and powder and fire to good advantage. He lost another ship when it got too close and the orcs swarmed from their own sinking vessel onto the Alliance ship, slaughtering most of its crew before the dying captain could toss a powder keg into the hold and hole his own ship. And they had lost the Third Fleet and a few scattered others to the dragons. But the orcs lost far more. A handful of their ships made it out of range, but the rest fell before Proudmoore's fury. As for the orcs themselves, a few swam for it or clutched shattered spars and planks, but the rest drowned or died by fire or bolt. Bodies littered the waves.