Aaron Rosenberg - Tides of Darkness

Provided nothing else went horribly wrong.

"Humans!" the orc scout gasped, dropping to his knees from sheer exhaustion. "To the east of us!"

Doomhammer stared at him. "East? Are you sure?" But he didn't need the scout's tired nod to know the orc was not lying. But how did the humans get east of them when they were chasing them the entire way and Lordaeron lay north and west of here?

Then he remembered. The Hinterlands! He had split off some of his forces there, leaving a clan behind to distract the humans while the rest marched on toward Quel'Thalas. The feint had worked and the humans had left half their own forces behind to flush the orcs from the forests there. Apparently those warriors had never made the trek to Capital City, and now they were heading toward them from the east. Which meant, if he was not careful, the two Alliance armies would trap his orcs between them and crush the last chance the Horde had for escape, much less victory.

"How many?" he demanded of the scout, who was gulping water from a skin.

"Hundreds, maybe more," the orc answered finally, frowning in concentration. "And some of those were heavily armored as well."

Doomhammer grimaced and turned away, swinging his hammer about him in great arcs to relieve the anger raging within him. Damn them! That many Alliance warriors could lay waste to his own forces, especially with their horsemen coming up fast from behind. And he was still days away from Khaz Modan. Nor had they seen a single hint of the dragon riders or their other lost brethren.

He had no choice. Doomhammer looked up and caught Tharbek's eye. "Quicken the pace," he told his lieutenant. "Full run, no breaks. We need to reach Khaz Modan as soon as possible."

Tharbek nodded and hurried off to shout orders to the other orcs, and Doomhammer growled as he watched the younger warrior go. Running felt too much like defeat, and that was something he hated to even consider. But he could not risk an open battle now. He needed to reach the Bleeding Hollow first. Then he could turn and face the restored Alliance army on more equal terms.

"There!" Tharbek pointed, and Doomhammer nodded, having already seen the orc scout crouching atop the cliff.

"Hail, Doomhammer!" the scout shouted, straightening as they approached and raising his axe in salute. "The Bleeding Hollow welcomes you back to Khaz Modan!"

"My thanks," Doomhammer shouted in reply, holding his black stone hammer aloft so the scout would recognize him easily even from this distance. "Where are Kilrogg and the rest?"

"We have made camp in a valley back within the mountains proper," the scout answered, leaping down to a lower ledge so they could converse more easily. "I will run and tell of your approach." He glanced up, and Doomhammer knew he was surveying the mass of warriors behind him. "Where is the rest of the Horde?"

"Dead, most of them," Doomhammer replied bluntly. He bared his tusks as the scout's eyes widened in surprise. "And we have Alliance forces marching fast behind us. Tell Kilrogg to ready his warriors for battle."

The scout seemed about to ask another question, then thought better of it. Instead he saluted again and darted back up the cliff, disappearing over the rise at a run. Doomhammer nodded. At least they would have the Bleeding Hollow warriors beside them when they stood to face the humans again. Kilrogg was a clever old warrior, still powerful despite his years, and his clan was fierce and warlike. Between the Blackrock and the Bleeding Hollow they would still be more than a match for the Alliance.

"We cannot fight them. Not with our full force."

Doomhammer stared at Kilrogg as the older chieftain shook his head, his face glum but resolute.

"What? Why not?" Doomhammer demanded.

"The dwarves," Kilrogg replied curtly.

"The dwarves?" At first he thought the chieftain meant the gryphon—riders, but Aerie Peak was far from here. He could only be referring to the dwarves that lived here in the mountains. "But we crushed their armies and routed them from their citadels."

"From all but one," Kilrogg corrected, glancing up so both his good eye and the dead, scarred one stared at Doomhammer. "We have not been able to crack Ironforge, and I have lost many good warriors in each attempt."

"Then leave it," Doomhammer insisted. "We do not need it now. We must turn on the humans before they can cross the land bridges and mass on this side of the channel. Once we have destroyed their army we can fall upon Ironforge and rip it open, then station our own warriors there while we march north again to finish our conquest there."

But Kilrogg shook his head. "The dwarves are too fierce to leave at our backs," he stated. "I have fought them many times these past few months, and I tell you true, if we let them they will boil from their fortress and fall upon us like angry wasps. Each time we crushed one of their citadels the survivors fled to Ironforge and it took them in—I can only guess how deep its levels run, but the whole of the dwarf nation lurk within it and await a chance for revenge. If we do not guard that place and keep them too busy to emerge we will face not one army but two."

Doomhammer paced, considering this new information. He trusted Kilrogg's judgment, but that meant they would not have enough warriors to stand against the Alliance here and hope to win. He would need to keep moving.

"Stay here," he told Kilrogg finally. "Keep as many warriors as you need to hold the dwarves and harry the humans. I will lead the rest to Blackrock Spire, where we can make our stand from within its sturdy walls." He glanced at the older chieftain. "If you can, bring your warriors there afterward. Perhaps you can fall on the humans from behind. Or perhaps more of our people will appear, either from the sea or from the Dark Portal." He straightened. "But Blackrock Spire is our strongpoint. If we cannot defeat the humans there we cannot hold them anywhere, and this war is lost."

Kilrogg nodded. For a second he eyed the Horde warchief, and when he spoke it was more softly than Doomhammer had ever heard the grizzled old chieftain. "You made the right choice," Kilrogg assured him. "I too know the depths of Gul'dan's treachery. He would have taken us back to the days before the Portal opened, when we were nearly mad with rage and hunger and desperation." He nodded. "Whatever else happens, you have given our people back their honor."

Doomhammer nodded back, feeling a sudden respect and even affection for the one—eyed chieftain he had always feared and disliked. He had always considered Kilrogg a brutish, savage warrior, more interested in glory than in honor. Perhaps he had been wrong all these years.

"Thank you," he said finally. There was nothing more to say and so he turned and walked away, back toward his own clan. There were orders to hand out, and another march to begin. Possibly the last.

"Turalyon!"

Turalyon glanced up at the shout, unable to believe his ears. But there, riding toward him, was a large man in full armor. The lion symbol of Stormwind glittered gold on his battered shield, and the hilt of a massive sword rose above one shoulder.

"Lord Lothar?" Amazed, Turalyon rose from his seat by a campfire and stood staring as the Champion of Stormwind and Commander of the Alliance reined in his horse. Then the older man had dismounted and was clapping him on the back.

"Good to see you, lad!" He could hear the genuine affection in Lothar's voice. "They said I'd find you here!"

"They?" Turalyon glanced around, still confused by his leader's sudden appearance.

"The elves," Lothar explained, pulling off his helm and running a hand over his balding pate. He looked tired but pleased. "I ran across Alleria and Theron and the others as I was turning north. They told me what had happened in Capital City and that you had brought the rest of the army this way, pursuing what's left of the Horde." He clasped him about the shoulders. "Good job, man!"