The Rageroar had told them all the weaknesses of the hold. Garrosh knew exactly where to direct his people. The first wave was doing well, surging up the paths to the courtyard areas, and Garrosh scrambled to a higher viewpoint to assess the situation.
To his left, the vessels sent by blood elves, goblins, and Forsaken were doing their jobs exactly as planned. Despite what sounded like continuous cannon fire from the Alliance, several dinghies had made it to the shore, their occupants scrambling toward their enemies and cutting them down without mercy.
To his right, the tauren and trolls were ruthlessly hammering at the walls. Even as Garrosh watched, one of them crumbled, and a wave of brown-furred and green- and blue-skinned bodies flowed over.
And straight ahead, the orcs—his orcs, his people, the true and original members of the Horde—slaughtered and whooped and laughed.
It would take perhaps an hour to finish the job, to penetrate so deeply into the hold that no clever ruse or strategy by Admiral Aubrey could ever win it back. Garrosh did not wish to wait that long. His gaze darted over the scene. The vast bulk of his people had plunged ahead. Only a few remained here, at the outskirts of the battle, picking off the guards who were attempting to keep the fighting outside of the hold. They would not need the makeshift bridges anymore.
It was time to deliver the final blow and bring the battle to a swift, decisive victory.
A few feet below Garrosh, Malkorok fought three guards: two humans, a male and a female, and one dwarf. Most orcs favored larger weapons—two-handed broadswords, massive axes or hammers. The Blackrock orc’s weapons of choice for the battle were instead two small but exquisitely swift and sharp axes. As the three charged him, thinking to enclose him in a circle, Malkorok laughed with glee. “Death to the Alliance!” he shouted, crouching and grinning. Then he exploded into motion, moving much faster than the enemy had expected. The axes became a blur, two glittering slices of death. Before she could even realize what was happening, the hapless human female was nearly sliced in two. Malkorok did not slow, whirling around and following the arc of the first axe with the second. The dwarf got in a blow, but his sword clanged uselessly off of Malkorok’s armor. Malkorok buried an axe deep into the space between neck and shoulder, and the dwarf crumpled. Snarling, the orc turned, again whirling the axes, his lack of two fingers not hampering him at all. The human male guard brought his sword up to parry, but he could only block one weapon. Uttering a cry, Malkorok lifted the second bloodied blade high and brought it plunging down into the man’s chest.
He turned, eyes darting about for his next target, but immediately looked up as his name was called by his warchief.
“The shaman!” shouted Garrosh. “Send them in!”
Malkorok grinned and lifted a fist to show that he had heard. Garrosh nodded once, then grasped Gorehowl. Throwing back his head, he uttered a bellow and dropped down from his vantage point. He leaped onto a boulder in the water and sprang from that to several unevenly placed boards, and then to the shoreline. Garrosh Hellscream had uttered the last command he would need to in this battle, and Malkorok saw how happy he was to finally be standing shoulder to shoulder with his brethren and using his father’s famous weapon to slaughter Alliance.
Malkorok reached out, grabbed the nearest Kor’kron, and repeated the order. The other orc nodded and raced back toward the north, where most of the shaman were waiting. They had been held in reserve for this moment.
Within minutes, several shaman were hurrying toward the battle front. Most of them were orcs. They wore not the simple white or earth-brown robes common to their ranks, but more ominous-looking garments that made them more akin to warlocks, and they moved with barely contained excitement.
Heavily armored warriors escorted them, forcing their way through clusters of frantically battling Horde and Alliance. The shaman made no effort to join the fight. They were focused on the boulders, covered with water and mud, several yards ahead.
As they approached, the shaman slowed, calming their breathing. They eyed one another, sharing secret smiles, then lifted their hands and uttered the commands that would cause the elements to obey.
Malkorok knew what was to come, but he paused a moment in the battle to watch, his heart swelling with orcish pride. There were at least two dozen boulders in the water. They had enabled the troops and the heavier weapons to cross, and now their second purpose was about to be fulfilled.
Before Malkorok’s eager gaze, the boulders quivered. Their hue turned from the dark red and brown of simple stone to a redder shade, then a mottled orange one, and they began… to melt. But the water did not cool them or stop this change, turning the magma back into rock as nature usually would. Instead, the water boiled and steamed away, as if the element of water itself was recoiling in fear from what was now in its depths. The stones continued to shudder and pulse as they lost shape and became liquid, their heat so powerful that even the shaman who controlled them were forced to turn their heads away or take a step back.
A tendril shot out from one of the rocks. A second tendril followed, then another, and another. The other boulders followed suit, the tendrils shortening, becoming denser, sprouting fingers and toes. A head burst through the top part of the rock and a mouth gaped open.
Small, glowing eyes looked about, down at the rock-body, at the shaman who controlled that body. One of the creatures growled, turning slowly around, reaching out for a black-leather-clad orc, who raised a commanding hand. The molten giant, for such it was, cringed back, muttering, then began to move forward. It would obey.
Even the orcs, who knew to expect this, seemed awestruck by the sight. As well they should be, thought Malkorok.
“Alliance!” he cried. “Behold the power that Garrosh Hellscream controls! Behold, and tremble, and die!”
Baine swung his mace, fighting off two soldiers with pikes. All around him, the air was full of sound: the crackle of gunfire, the booming of the cannons, the singing of arrows being loosed, and over and around it all, the cries of Horde and Alliance fighting, killing, and dying. One of the soldiers lunged toward him. Baine moved more swiftly than the man had bargained for, and the pike stabbed only empty air. Baine’s mace slammed into him as he stumbled, and the human fell. The other Northwatch soldier thought he had an opening, but Baine’s mace snapped the pike’s shaft as if it were a twig and, on the backswing, crunched the soldier’s skull as if it were an acorn.
Baine shook his head, regret filling him. At least he offered a swift death.
It was then that the sounds changed. A new one was added—a deep bellow of anger, as if the earth itself had been given voice. Baine’s ears pricked up at once and his head turned to follow the sound. His eyes widened. Before he could speak, though, another voice rose, loud and full of righteous anger.
“In the name of the Earth Mother!” cried Kador Cloudsong. “Garrosh! What have you done?”
“What are these—things?” Baine demanded.
Kador turned to him, his fur bristling with outrage. “They are molten giants,” he said, “powerful fire elementals that do not work willingly with the shaman but must be forced to obey. The Earth Mother is angry that her children are so used. The Earthen Ring has forbidden such things. They fear it could cause further instability in the earth.”