“Even so… he spoke out so brazenly,” Malkorok growled.
“Indeed,” said Garrosh. “But he comes through when he is needed. As do Vol’jin, and Lor’themar, and Sylvanas.”
“And Gallywix.”
Garrosh made a face. “He is out only for profit and is as subtle as a charging kodo about it. As long as the Horde lines his purse, he will be loyal.”
“Would that all our allies were so transparent.”
“Leave Baine be, for now,” said Garrosh.
“This is the task you set me to, great warchief,” said Malkorok. “To root out those who would defy your leadership and thus become traitors to the glorious Horde.”
“But if we are too suspicious of our allies, their patience will grow thin,” retorted Garrosh. “No, Malkorok. The time is now to fight the Alliance, not each other. And what a fight it will be!”
“And if Baine or Vol’jin, or others, do plot against you?”
“If you have proof rather than irritated words, then, as always, you have free rein. Which I know well you have already exercised.”
Malkorok’s gray lips curved in a smile that was as malevolent as it was ugly.
The ships—Forsaken, blood elf, goblin—had come early to Ratchet, and Garrosh could barely contain his excitement at the sight. Ratchet’s harbor was crowded with them, and Garrosh’s hot anticipation of the certain bloodbath to come was quelled slightly as he realized that it would take some time to unload all the troops and supplies he had requested. This was the part of being warchief that he found tiresome, but it couldn’t be helped.
The arrival of the orcs did not go unnoticed despite the activity in the harbor, and cheers went up. Garrosh waved and dismounted as three figures approached. One he knew—the corpulent and sly trade prince Gallywix. The others, a blood elf and a Forsaken, he did not, and he frowned.
“Warchief Garrosh!” said Gallywix enthusiastically, his piggy eyes bright and his arms outstretched in welcome. By the ancestors, Garrosh thought with a stab of repugnance, did the goblin think to embrace him?
He forestalled the gesture by turning to the blood elf. She had golden hair and pale skin, and wore the bright, gleaming armor that marked her as one of her people’s paladins. “Where is Lor’themar?” Garrosh asked bluntly.
Her full lips pressed together in irritation, but when she spoke, her voice was calm and pleasant. “He has sent me to oversee the blood elf troops. My name is Kelantir Bloodblade. I trained with the lady Liadrin, and I serve under Ranger-General Halduron Bright-wing.”
“Neither of whom is here,” said Malkorok, stepping protectively near Garrosh. “Instead we have this little third-ranking whelp.”
Kelantir turned coolly to Malkorok. “You also have two ships filled with blood elves willing to fight and die for the Horde,” she said. “Unless you are so sufficient in numbers and supplies that our feeble support will not be necessary.”
Garrosh had never much cared for blood elves, and this female was getting under his skin. “You have a chance to prove your people’s worth in battle today,” he said. “Take care you do not squander it.”
“My people are familiar with war and battles and sacrifice, Warchief Garrosh,” snapped Kelantir. “You will not find us lacking.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched back to the docks, her plate mail—how can she even bear it on such a tiny, twig-fragile frame? Garrosh wondered—clanking slightly as she strode.
“Warchief—” interjected Gallywix, but Malkorok silenced the loquacious goblin with a single glance. Garrosh directed his attention to the Forsaken, who, in contrast to the arrogance displayed by the blood elf, bowed almost obsequiously low. He was a warrior of sorts, if the blade sheathed at his bony hip was any indication. He had no hair—it apparently had rotted off by this point—and his skin was the pale green color of decay.
“Captain Frandis Farley, sir, commanding the Forsaken units in the name of Sylvanas Windrunner, in service to the Horde and your good self,” he said in a rasping, deep voice. While his jaw moved properly to form the words, once he had stopped speaking, it seemed to drop into a permanently gaping expression.
“And where is your Dark Lady?” asked Garrosh.
Farley lifted his head, and his eyes gleamed with yellow light. “Why,” he said, sounding surprised, “holding reserves and standing ready to command when, after your inevitable victory, the Horde marches on Theramore.”
The response was audacious and cunning, and Garrosh threw back his head and laughed. “Perhaps we should send you in to simply talk to the lady Jaina, and she will voluntarily surrender completely.”
“My warchief flatters me. But that would deprive the Horde of a well-earned victory, would it not?”
“Fight as skillfully as you speak today, Frandis Farley, and your warchief will be well pleased.”
“I shall endeavor to do so.” Some foul substance gathered at one corner of the slack jaw and dripped to the hard-baked earth. “Now, with your permission, I will see to unloading the cargo my lady has sent.”
Pleased with the banter, though still irritated at both Sylvanas and Lor’themar for sending underlings instead of coming themselves, Garrosh finally turned to Gallywix. The goblin had dropped his eager-to-please mask and chomped sullenly on his cigar, the top hat slipping over his low brow.
“You, Trade Prince, seem to be the only one who has come to Ratchet to lead your people into battle. I will remember this.”
The mask slipped back into place immediately. “Well, I am not so much leading my people into battle as overseeing getting them here and settled, and making sure the supplies you requested were properly delivered, if you understand my—”
Garrosh absently patted Gallywix’s top hat and walked down to the dock to get a better view of the ships and cargo.
At first, it would seem a strange choice. Other than warm bodies to physically fight in the battle ahead, the ships were filled not with swords or bows or armor, but with carefully stacked timbers, securely tied with ropes into tidy bundles, and carts bearing rocks.
But Garrosh nodded his approval. He sighed, forcing down his impatience, and indicated that some of the larger, more physically powerful orcs should give the slender blood elves and the—in some cases quite literally—skin-and-bones Forsaken some assistance in unloading the cargo.
Soon—perhaps within hours—Northwatch Hold would fall.
Victory was, after all, the Horde’s destiny.
When Hannah Bridgewater, her clothes soaked with sweat and her legs trembling with exhaustion, was stopped by one of the Northwatch guards patrolling the western path, her message was relayed immediately to Admiral Aubrey. He swore, a single, harsh word, then recovered. To the guard who had brought him the news, he said, “Notify everyone to prepare for battle. The tauren and trolls are approaching from the west. Shore up our defenses there and—”
“Sir!” yelped Blaine. He stood, his eyes fixed on the signaler on the dock below, who was frantically waving the semaphore flags. “Horde ships are approaching from Ratchet—six of them! Fully armed battleships!”
“Six?”
“Aye, sir.” Blaine strained for more information. “They appear to have the markings of—of goblin, Forsaken, and blood elf!”
Aubrey didn’t reply. Trolls and tauren first, and now the Forsaken, the sin’dorei, and the goblins. The only ones missing were—
“Orcs,” he snapped. “Tell Dockmaster Lewis to send some scouts to Ratchet. They’ll have to dodge the remnants of the Rageroar, but they’re used to that.” He should have known the instant he heard the word “tauren” that they would not come alone. The tauren army pressed forward in an attack before, not after the late general Hawthorne had ensured that the civilians of Camp Taurajo would be allowed to leave unharmed. It wasn’t like them.