Aaron Rosenberg: Tides of Darkness

Dawn, and fog still shrouded the world. In the sleepy village of Southshore, people stirred, unable to see the dawn light but knowing night had ended nonetheless. The fog covered the world, draping itself over their simple wooden homes and concealing the sea they knew lay just beyond the town's edge. Though they could not see it, they could hear the water lapping at the shore, rippling up around the single dock.

Then they began to hear something else.

Slow and steady it came, floating through the fog, the sound reverberating until they could identify neither source nor direction. Did it come from the land behind them or the sea before them? Was it merely the waves striking harder than usual, or rain beating down upon the fog itself, or some trader's wagon rolling along the hard dirt path? Listening intently, the villagers finally realized the strange new sound came from the water. Rushing to the shore, they peered out into the fog, trying to pierce its gloom. What was this noise, and what did it bring with it?

Slowly the fog began to shift, as if pushed forward by the noise itself. The fog swelled and darkened, and then the darkness took on form, a wave rushing toward them. The villagers backed away, several of them crying out. They were masters of the water, these men, fishermen born and bred, but this wave was not water. It moved wrong for that. It was something else.

The darkness continued its approach, carrying the fog with it, the sound intensifying. Then finally it breached the fog, piercing its veil, and the shape divided into many and took on form. Boats. Many, many boats. The villagers relaxed slightly, for boats they understood, yet still they were wary. Southshore was a quiet fishing village. They had a dozen small boats themselves, no more, and had seen perhaps a dozen others through the years. Suddenly there were hundreds approaching them all at once. What did this mean? The men grasped short wooden clubs, knives, hooked poles, even weighted nets, whatever came to hand. And they waited tensely, watching as the boats drew closer. More boats were emerging from the mists, an unending procession, and with each new row of ships the villagers' shock grew. There were not hundreds but thousands approaching them, a veritable nation, more boats than they had ever seen before! Where had so many vessels come from? What could make them put to the water at once like this? And what could send them to Lordaeron? The villagers gripped their weapons more tightly, children and women hiding within their homes, and still the boats multiplied. The sounds were finally clear as the stroke of many oars striking the water out of rhythm.

The first boat beached itself, and only now could the villagers see the figures within it. They relaxed further, though their confusion and concern grew. There were men there, and women and even children judging by the size, with skin both pale and tanned and hair all the normal shades. These were not monsters, nor the other races the villagers had heard of but never seen. Nor did they seem armed for battle, for clearly most of these newcomers were not warriors. This was no invasion, at least. It seemed more a flight from some horrible disaster, and the villagers felt their fear turning to sympathy. What could have sent what seemed an entire nation into the sea?

More boats reached the shore, and people began to stagger out of them. Some collapsed on the rocky beach, crying. Others stood tall and took deep breaths, as if glad to be rid of the water. The fog was rolling back now, the morning sun beating it to thin wisps that faded before the strong rays, and the villagers could see more clearly. These people were no army. Many of them were women and children indeed, and many were poorly dressed. Most looked thin and weak. They were just people. People clearly stricken by some calamity, many of them so overwrought they could barely stand or stumble up the shore.

A few wore armor, however. One from the lead boat walked toward the assembled villagers. He was a large, stout man, almost bald, with a thick mustache and beard and a strong, stern face. His armor had clearly seen many battles, and above one shoulder rose the hilt of a massive sword. But in his arms he carried not weapons but two small children, and several more hurried alongside him, clinging to the warrior's armor, belt, and scabbard. Beside him walked a strange man, tall and broad—shouldered but slender, white—haired but with a strong stride. This one was dressed all in tattered violet robes and a worn rucksack, and carried a child across one shoulder while leading another by the hand. A third figure moved with them, a youth, brown—haired and brown—eyed and barely aware of his surroundings, one hand holding the large man's cloak like a small child clinging desperately to a parent's hand. His clothes were richly made but stiff with sea salt and worn from hard use.

"Hail and well met!" the warrior called out, approaching the villagers, his broad face grim. "We are refugees, fleeing a terrible, terrible battle. I beg you, any food and drink you might spare, and shelter if you can, for the children's sake."

The villagers glanced at one another, then nodded, weapons lowering. They were not a wealthy village but they were not poor either, and they would have to be far worse off to let children go unaided. Men came and took the children from the warrior and the violet—robed one and led them to the church, their largest, sturdiest structure. Already the village women were stirring up pots of porridge and stew. Soon the refuges were camped in the church and around it, eating and drinking, sharing donated blankets and coats. The mood would have been festive if not for the sorrow evident in every newcomer's face.

"Thank you," the warrior told the village headman, who had introduced himself as Marcus Redpath. "I know you cannot spare much, and I am grateful for what you have given us."

"We will not let women and children suffer," Marcus replied. He frowned, studying the other man's armor and sword. "Now tell me, who are you and why are you here?"

"My name is Anduin Lothar," the warrior answered, running a hand over his forehead. "I am—I was—the Knight Champion of Stormwind."

"Stormwind?" Marcus had heard of the nation. "But that is across the sea!"

"Yes." Lothar nodded sadly. "We sailed for days to reach this land. We are in Lordaeron, are we not?"

"We are," the violet—robed one commented, speaking for the first time. "I recognize the land, though not this village." His voice was surprisingly strong for one so old, though up close only his hair and the lines on his face suggested advanced age. Otherwise he seemed barely more than a youth.

"This is Southshore," Marcus told them, eyeing the white—bearded young man warily. "You are from Dalaran?" he asked at last, trying to keep his tone neutral.

"Aye," the stranger acknowledged. "And do not fear—I will be returning there as soon as my companions can travel."

Marcus tried not to let his relief show. The wizards of Dalaran were powerful and he had heard the king treated them as allies and advisers, but for himself Marcus wanted no truck with magic or its wielders.

"We must not delay," Lothar was agreeing. "I must speak with the king at once. We dare not give the Horde time to move again."

Marcus did not understand this comment but he recognized the urgency in the stocky warrior's tone. "The women and children may stay here a time," he assured them. "We will care for them."

"Thank you," Lothar said with obvious sincerity. "We will send food and other supplies back once we reach the king."