Tides of Darkness (world of warcraf)

by Aaron Rosenberg

  "Without consulting me?" Lothar was furious. "And what if they have sent an entire army, and suddenly announce they are in control? What if the Horde arrives while we are working to assimilate them into our own forces? You do not conceal details like this from your military commander! It could mean our deaths, or at the very least the deaths of many of our people!"

  Terenas nodded soberly. "You are correct, of course," he answered, reminding Lothar once again why he liked the king. Most men were unwilling to accept fault, and often those with authority were even worse about it. But Terenas took full responsibility for his actions, good or bad. "I should have consulted you first. I felt time was of the essence, but that is no excuse. It will not happen again."

  Lothar nodded gruffly. "Fine. Let's go and see what these elves look like, then." He marched out of the tent, the others following close behind him.

  The first thing Lothar saw as he peeled back the tent flap and stepped outside were his own troops. Their army filled the valley and beyond, stretching across the landscape, and for an instant Lothar felt a rush of pride and confidence. How could anyone, anything, stand against so mighty a force? But then he saw again in his mind's eye the Horde washing over Stormwind, an unstoppable emerald sea, and grew somber again. Still, the Alliance army was many times larger than Stormwind's had been. They would at least give the Horde serious pause.

  Glancing past his troops Lothar's gaze came to the shore, and the sea beyond. Proudmoore's ships were anchored all along the coastline, from small fast scout ships to massive destroyers, creating a forest of masts and sails across the waves. But many of them had pulled back from the docks, creating an open channel, and sailing up that space were a cluster of ships such as Lothar had never seen.

  "Elven destroyers," Proudmoore whispered at his elbow. "Faster than our own, and lighter—they carry less weaponry but make up for that with speed. An excellent, excellent addition to our forces." The navy admiral frowned. "But so few? I count only four, and eight smaller vessels. This is a single battle group."

  "Perhaps more are following them," Turalyon suggested from Lothar's other side.

  But Proudmoore shook his head. "That would not be their way," he answered. "They would all arrive together."

  "A dozen ships is still a dozen more than we had before," Khadgar pointed out. "And whatever troops they carry as well."

  Lothar nodded. "We should go and greet them," he said, and the others all agreed. Together they set out across the valley. Perenolde and Graymane were not used to such exertion and were gasping in minutes but the rest were fit and they moved briskly, reaching the docks just as the first ship glided to a stop beside it.

  A tall, lithe figure leaped across, landing lightly on the rough wooden pier. Long golden hair caught the sunlight, and Lothar heard at least one of his companions gasp behind him. As the figure drew closer Lothar saw it was a woman, and a stunning one at that. Her slender features were delicate but strong, as was her lean, willowy body. She wore forest green and oak brown, a strange lightweight breastplate over shirt and breeches and a long cloak with the hood tossed back, and leather gloves covered her arms to the elbow just as boots protected her legs to the knees. A slim sword hung at one hip, a pouch and horn at the other, and across her back were slung a longbow and a quiver of arrows. Lothar had seen many women over the years, some of them as beautiful as this elf approaching them, but he had never seen one who so easily combined strength and grace. He could understand why several of his companions already seemed smitten.

  "Milady," Lothar called out when she was still a few paces away. "Welcome. I am Anduin Lothar, commander of the Alliance of Lordaeron."

  She nodded, covering the remaining distance and stopping only a handspan away. From here he could see the pointed ears poking up through her hair, and the wide, emerald—green eyes that slanted up at the corners. "I am Alleria Windrunner, and I bring you greetings from Anasterian Sunstrider and the Council of Silvermoon." Her voice was lovely, musical and rich, and Lothar suspected it was pleasant even in anger.

  "Thank you." He turned and gestured to the men gathered around him. "Allow me to present the kings of the Alliance, as well as my lieutenants." After introductions had been made, he turned to more serious matters. "Forgive my bluntness, Lady Alleria," he said, drawing a smile from her at the title, "but I must ask—is this all the aid your people can muster?"

  That brought a frown from her. "I will tell you straight, Lord Lothar," she replied, glancing around to make sure no others were listening. Several other elves, both men and women, had left the ship now and were clustered at the far end of the pier, clearly awaiting Alleria's permission to move closer. "Anasterian and the others were little concerned at the reports you sent. This Horde is far distant from us and seems intent upon conquering human lands, not our own forests. The council members feel it is better to leave this conflict to the younger races, and merely strengthen our own borders to prevent any additional incursions." Her eyes narrowed, showing what she thought of such a decision.

  "Yet you are here," Khadgar pointed out. "Surely that means something?"

  She nodded. "The missive from King Terenas" — she nodded in his direction—"informed us that you, Lord Lothar, were the last of the Arathi bloodline. Our ancestors pledged eternal support to your King Thoradin and all his kin. Anasterian could not deny that obligation. He has sent this battle group to acknowledge the debt."

  "And you?" Lothar asked, noticing she had only mentioned the ships.

  "I am here of my own accord," she announced proudly, tossing her head back in the same way he had seen spirited stallions do when challenged. "I am a ranger, and chose to bring my own detachment and offer our aid freely." She glanced beyond Lothar, her eyes roaming, and he knew she was studying the army spread out behind him. "I sensed this conflict was far more serious than my own rulers realized. Such a war could easily spread to us all, and if the Horde is as vicious as you say our forests will not remain inviolate for long." She turned back and met Lothar's gaze, and he could see that for all her beauty this was a strong woman used to battle. "We must stop them."

  Lothar nodded. "I agree." He bowed. "Well, you are welcome here, milady, and I thank your lords for their token support. But I am far more grateful for your presence, and that of your rangers." He smiled. "We were just discussing our next move, and I would be pleased to hear your opinion. And once your people are settled I will ask you to send them scouting, that we may be sure the enemy is not yet upon us."

  "We need no rest," Alleria assured him. "I will send them at once." She gestured, and the other elves approached. Each was garbed as she was, and moved as quietly, though to Lothar's eyes they lacked her singular grace. Alleria spoke with them, her words fluid and musical and completely foreign to Lothar, and the others nodded and then flitted past them with a brief nod, disappearing at a run off the docks and through the valley. Within minutes they had vanished from sight.

  "They will scout and report back," Alleria explained. "If the Horde has come within two days' march of here, we will know of it."

  "Excellent." Lothar ran a hand absently over his bare forehead. "If you would care to accompany us back to the command tent, then, milady, I will show you what we know thus far and we will hear your thoughts on the matter."

  She laughed. "Of course. But you will have to stop calling me ‘milady' if you want me to pay proper attention. It is Alleria, nothing more."

  Lothar nodded and turned, leading her off the docks. As he did he caught a glimpse of Turalyon's face and suppressed a grin. Now he knew where the gasp had come from.

  Two days later, Lothar found he had nothing to smile about. Alleria's scouts had returned, as had Proudmoore's, and both had the same news to share. The Horde had taken Khaz Modan and used the dwarven mines to craft ships of their own, massive ungainly vessels of iron and timber that moved awkwardly but could carry thousands of orcs in their deep holds. These ships had carried the Horde swiftly across the water, and they had indee
d aimed at the southern coast of Lordaeron. Not as far as Graymane's domain, however. It looked as if the Horde would come ashore in the Hillsbrad region, halfway between here and Gilneas. If the Alliance moved quickly, they could be there waiting when the Horde arrived.

  "Gather the troops!" Lothar bellowed. "Leave everything nonessential—we can send people back for it later, if we survive! Right now we need speed more than anything else. Go! Go!" He turned to Khadgar as his other lieutenants ran from the command tent to muster their own troops, the kings right beside them. "And so it begins," he told the young—old wizard.

  Khadgar nodded. "I thought we would have more time," he admitted.

  "So did I," Lothar agreed. "But these orcs are impatient to conquer. That may be their downfall." He sighed. "At least, I hope so." He stared at the maps of Hillsbrad a moment, trying to envision the coming battle, then shook his head. There were things to do, many of them. And the battle would come soon enough.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "A re we ready?"

  Turalyon gulped and nodded. "Ready, sir."

  Lothar nodded and turned away, frowning, and for a second Turalyon worried the expression was because of him. Had he given the wrong response? Had Lord Lothar wanted more detail? Was there something else he was supposed to say or do?

  Stop it, he warned himself. You're panicking. Again! Calm down. You're doing fine. He's frowning because we're about to go into battle, not because you've disappointed him.

  Forcing himself not to think about it any more, Turalyon gave his gear one more inspection. The straps of his armor were all good and tight, his shield was steady on his arm, his warhammer was slung from the saddle—horn. He was ready. As ready as he could be.

  Looking around, he studied the other figures nearby. Lothar was talking to Uther, and Turalyon envied both men their poise. They looked slightly impatient but otherwise completely calm. Was that just something you picked up as you got more experience? Khadgar was looking out over the plain, and must have sensed Turalyon's gaze because he turned and gave him a weary smile.

  "Nervous?" the mage asked.

  Turalyon grinned despite himself. "Very," he admitted. He had been raised with the typical sense of respect but wariness toward magi but Khadgar was different. Perhaps it was because they were near the same age, though the mage looked decades older. Or perhaps it was simply that Khadgar didn't hold himself above non—magi the way Turalyon had seen other wizards do. They had struck up an easy conversation that first day, after Archbishop Faol had introduced all of them, and Turalyon had found himself liking Khadgar. He liked Lothar as well, but was in awe of the Champion's experience and martial skill. Khadgar was probably more powerful personally, but somehow he was more approachable, and he and Turalyon had become fast friends. He was the only one Turalyon felt safe telling about his fears.

  "Don't worry about it," Khadgar advised. "Everyone is. The trick is just to work past that."

  "You're nervous too?"

  The mage grinned. "Scared spitless would be closer," he revealed. "I have been every time we've been in combat. And it was Lothar who told me, after one encounter, that you should be scared. Because the man who isn't afraid gets careless, and that's when he gets hurt."

  Turalyon nodded. "My instructors said much the same thing." He shook his head. "It's one thing to say that, though, and another to believe it."

  His friend patted him on the shoulder. "You'll do fine," he assured. "Once it starts you'll be too busy to think about it."

  They both turned and looked out again. The Hillsbrad region was so named for its rolling foothills, and the Alliance army was spread across the last line of those hills, facing Lordaeron's Southshore and the Great Sea beyond. The Horde ships were approaching even as they watched, massive unwieldy vessels of dark metal and blackened wood, without sails but with row upon row of oars. Lothar intended to meet the Horde as it emerged from the water, before the orcs had a chance to find their footing. Proudmoore's navy had already assaulted the ships during their passage, destroying several vessels and sending thousands of orcs to the bottom of the ocean, but the Horde was so numerous they had merely picked off the outermost ships while the rest sailed on past. There would still be fighting aplenty when they landed.

  "They are almost ashore," Alleria reported, her sharp elven eyes seeing farther than theirs. She turned toward Turalyon. "Best ready your men for the attack."

  Turalyon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He had seen women before, of course, and nothing about his Order forbade relationships or even marriage. But the elven ranger made every other woman he had ever met seem both weak and rough at the same time. She was so confident, so graceful, and so lovely his mouth ran dry every time he saw her, and he often found himself trembling and sweating like a horse that had just run a hard race. And judging by the glint in her eyes and the half—smile when she said anything to him, Turalyon suspected she knew and enjoyed his discomfort.

  Now at least he had something to distract him. Signaling his unit leaders, Turalyon gave them the go—ahead gesture. They in turn gave an order to their heralds, who sounded the advance on their battle horns. Within minutes the entire Alliance force was in motion, marching and riding slowly but steadily down the hill and toward the shore.

  As they closed the distance Turalyon made out more details. He saw the first of the ships beach itself, and dark figures swarm over its side, stomping up the rocky beach and toward the foothills. Even from here he could see they were broadly built, with thick chests and long, powerful arms, and bandy legs that ate up the distance. They brandished weapons, axes and hammers and swords and spears. And there were a lot of them.

  "They have reached the land!" Lothar shouted, drawing his massive greatsword with a single sweep and holding it aloft, the gold runes along its blade catching the light. "Charge! For Lordaeron!" He spurred his horse and it leaped forward, past the Alliance ranks, the golden lion on his shield catching the light.

  "Damn!" Turalyon kicked his own steed into a gallop and took off after his commander, snatching up his hammer and dropping his helm into place as he moved. He saw soldiers scrambling out of the way, and others hastening to catch up, and then he was past them and in the narrow stretch between the two armies. But soon enough that vanished and he crashed full—force into the orcs, reaching them just as Lothar's first swing took down several and others advanced toward his horse, determined to pull the Champion down and tear him apart.

  "No!" Turalyon swung as soon as he was within reach, his hammer catching an orc full in the head. The creature dropped with barely a sound and Turalyon knocked a second one aside with his shield, battering the orc away long enough to bring his hammer back around and smash at that one as well.

  By the Light, they were ugly! Lothar and Khadgar had described them but it was not the same as seeing them firsthand, with that vivid green skin and those glowing red eyes. And those tusks! He had seen such things on boars before, but never on anything that walked on two legs and carried a weapon! They were strong too, he saw, as an orc's warhammer clashed with his own and almost drove his weapon back into his helm, the creature struck with such force. Fortunately they seemed to rely more upon strength and aggression than skill—he was able to twist his weapon free and bring it back around, its haft catching the orc a glancing blow across the cheek and stunning it long enough for Turalyon to strike again properly.

  Lothar had cleared the orcs from his side with a vicious sword swing, and Turalyon guided his horse beside the commander so they stood side by side, hammer and greatsword in constant motion. Uther was right behind them now, his own mighty hammer crushing orcs left and right, a visible glow surround him and his weapon and making the orcs turn away, shielding their eyes. A cheer arose from the Alliance forces as they saw the Paladins' prowess. Turalyon was not surprised. He had trained alongside Uther and knew the older Paladin's faith was incredibly strong, strong enough to manifest visibly. He wished his own was as solid.

  Now was not the
time to think of that, however. More orc warships were reaching the beach, and orcs were pouring from them by the thousands. Turalyon saw at once that they would be overwhelmed if they stayed. "Sir!" he shouted at Lothar. "We need to move back to the rest of the army!"

  At first he thought the Champion had not heard him, but Lothar skewered another orc and then nodded. "Uther!" he shouted, and the Paladin turned. "Back to the others!" Uther raised his hammer in salute and wheeled his horse around at once, bludgeoning a path back through the gathering Horde. Lothar was right behind him and Turalyon brought up the rear, laying about him with hammer and shield to keep orc hands and weapons at bay. One orc reached for him, a massive axe held ready in its other hand, only to fall with an arrow through its throat. Turalyon risked a quick glance around and saw a slender figure back on the hill raise a longbow in salute. He could just make out the gleam of her hair from here.

  Several times he thought they would fall but he, Uther, and Lothar all made it back to the front lines safely. The Horde was right behind them.

  "Form up!" Lothar shouted. "Raise spears. Link shields! Repel them!" The soldiers hurried to obey—they had been standing ready but separately, individuals rather than a unified force, but that would not work against the Horde's superior numbers. Now they moved together, forming a solid shield wall that bristled with spears, and the Horde crashed into that. In several places the wall fell, a defender overpowered by an orc's charge, but much of it held as orcs fell back, clutching new wounds. Some dropped and did not rise again, though their fellows quickly swarmed over and past them.

  A second wave struck the shield wall, collapsing more sections, but again the orcs took heavy casualties. Turalyon signaled the nearest unit leaders and was pleased to see them respond quickly, a second shield wall already forming behind the first. They could build wall after wall, and if each one cost the orcs as heavily they could whittle away the Horde until it was small enough to face the creatures directly.