Aaron Rosenberg - Tides of Darkness

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.

"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 know 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.