Aaron Rosenberg - Tides of Darkness

With the last of the orc fleet disappearing from view, the remaining dragon riders decided there was nothing left to save here. They turned their mounts and fled east toward Khaz Modan, the Wildhammers pursuing them with great whoops and shouts. And Proudmoore surveyed the remains of his fleet, tired but victorious—though at great cost.

"Sir!" one of the sailors shouted. He was leaning over the rail and gesturing at something in the water.

"What is it?" Proudmoore snapped, stepping up beside the man. But his anger changed to hope as he saw what the sailor had seen—someone bobbing in the water, sputtering and clutching to a torn plank.

Someone human.

"Get a rope to him!" Proudmoore ordered, and sailors hastened to obey. "And scan the waters for other survivors!" He wasn't sure how someone from the Third Fleet had wound up this far from where their boats had gone down, but at least one man had. And that meant there could be others.

He could not prevent the tiny flash of hope that Derek might be one of them.

That hope turned to confusion and then to fury, however, when the man was finally hauled aboard. Instead of the green tunic of Kul Tiras, the half—drowned man wore the waterlogged garb of Alterac. And there was only one way one of Perenolde's men could have wound up here in the Great Sea with the orc fleet.

"What were you doing on an orc boat?" Proudmoore demanded, kneeling with his knee on the man's chest. Already weak and out of breath, the man gasped and turned pale. "Speak!"

"Lord Perenolde…sent us," the man managed to blurt out. "We…guided them to their…ships. He told…us…to render…any assistance…necessary."

"Traitor!" Proudmoore drew his dagger and laid it across the man's neck. "Conspiring with the Horde! I should gut you like a fish and toss your innards into the sea!" He pressed slightly and watched as a thin red line appeared along the man's skin, the sharp edge parting his flesh easily. But then he drew back and rose to his feet again.

"Such a death is too good for you," Proudmoore announced, resheathing his dagger. "And alive you can provide proof of Perenolde's treachery." He turned to one of the nearby sailors. "Bind him and toss him into the brig," he ordered brusquely. "And search for any other survivors. The more evidence we have, the quicker Perenolde will hang."

"Yes, sir!" The men saluted and hurried about their tasks. It took another hour before they were sure they had scoured the waters completely. They found three more men, all of whom confirmed the first's story. There were countless orcs in the water as well, but those they let drown.

"Set sail for Southshore," Proudmoore told his pilot after the last Alterac traitor had been hauled aboard. "We will rejoin the Alliance army, and report both our success and Alterac's betrayal. Keep your eyes peeled for those orc ships that escaped our attack." Then he turned away, heading for his cabin, where he could at last give in to his own grief. And, after that, write a letter to his wife, informing her what had befallen their eldest son.

"They are not coming."

Young Tharbek turned, startled by his leader's sudden pronouncement. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Doomhammer grimaced. "The rest of the Horde. They are not coming."

Tharbek looked around. "You sent them all the way down to the Great Sea," he pointed out carefully, wary of drawing his superior's wrath. "It will take them many days to return."

"They have dragons, you fool!" Doomhammer's fist lashed out, catching Tharbek across the cheek and sending the younger orc staggering back. "The dragon riders would have been here days ago to inform us of the troops' progress! Something has happened! The fleet is gone, and the bulk of our forces with it!"

Tharbek nodded, rubbing his cheek sullenly with one hand, but said nothing. He didn't have to. Doomhammer knew what his Second was thinking—if he had not sent the other clans after Gul'dan in the first place, this would not be an issue now.

Doomhammer ground his teeth together. Why was it no one else among his people understood the reasons behind his decision? He had seen the same look from every other orc these past few days, ever since he had ordered the retreat from Capital City. The gates had already been showing small cracks, and bowed with each strike of the battering ram. The city's guards had long since exhausted their oil supply and were reduced to pouring boiling water on them. The Alliance forces had been pushed back across the lake, and were being held at the bridge. They had almost won! Another day, two at the most, and the city would have cracked. And then he had sent the army away, leaving them too weak to continue here.

Nor had the Alliance been slow to capitalize on the sudden reversal. The humans had poured across the bridge immediately after the Blackhands had led their clan away, crashing through the handful of remaining orc defenders and pushing their way out onto the battlefield. The orcs had found themselves trapped between horsemen and foot soldiers on the one side and entrenched guards on the other. And they had no help in sight. It would take days or even weeks for the rest of the Horde to return, just as Tharbek had said, and that was assuming they were able to defeat Gul'dan and his warlocks and his ogres and whatever else he had conjured to aid him in his treachery. The warriors still trapped in or beyond the mountains he had to assume were dead by now, killed by whatever humans had retaken the passes and closed that route to them. The orcs standing before the city were all he had left for the assault.

So he had ordered the retreat. He had hoped the other clans would encounter them on the way, but the dragons at least should have been here long before. Something had definitely gone wrong. And he blamed Gul'dan for it all. Even if the warlock had not personally killed the Horde warriors, it was his betrayal that had forced Doomhammer to split his forces.

And he had been forced. He had made personal vows to the ancestral spirits that he would not allow his race to continue as it had. He would fight the corruption, the blood lust, the savagery at every turn, using every weapon at his command. Winning the war did not matter. His own survival meant nothing. Without honor they were mere animals, less than animals because they had the potential to be so much more and had a noble history they had thrown away for blood and combat and hatred. If he had allowed Gul'dan to escape unpunished he would have been guilty of allowing such selfishness, even encouraging it, and would have been partially responsible for the further degradation of the entire race.

At least this way he could say he had done his best, Doomhammer decided. He had upheld his honor, and through him the honor of the Horde. They might lose to the humans but they would do so proudly, on their feet and with weapons in their hands, not howling or sniveling.

Besides, the war was not over yet. He was leading his warriors south but to the east instead of the west. Khaz Modan lay there, between Lordaeron and Azeroth. It was the home of the dwarves, and they had marched through that region to reach this land. The dwarves had proven sturdy opponents but their mountain keeps had fallen before the might of the Horde, all except the city of Ironforge, which held fast. Doomhammer had left Kilrogg Deadeye and his Bleeding Hollow clan there to oversee the mining operations that had ultimately produced their ships. If he could lead his own warriors back there and reunite with Kilrogg they would have a substantial force again, enough to turn on the pursuing Alliance and destroy them in turn. The battles would be more difficult, and their conquest would take far longer, but they could still dominate this continent and carve out homes for themselves.