“The tauren and the trolls have ever been friends to the orcs,” he said. “We admire and respect your race. You are warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream, not just warchief of the orcs.” He let his gaze move to the imposing figure of Malkorok standing beside Garrosh, his arms folded across his massive gray chest as he stared balefully at Baine. “You lead us—all of us. You are too smart to be ignoring our advice on this. We do not understand why you seem to wish to listen only to this Blackrock orc.”
Malkorok growled low and took a step forward. Garrosh raised a hand, and the other orc paused in midstride. “I need you to get a message to the Blood and Thunder and the other vessels gathered just outside of Theramore Harbor,” he said, his eyes not on Malkorok but on Baine. “Tell them that I have new orders for them.”
Baine and Vol’jin exchanged hopeful glances. Perhaps Garrosh was finally listening to them.
Garrosh smiled around his tusks, and when he spoke, his voice was hard. “Tell the fleet to pull back even farther from Theramore. Far enough away that the most sophisticated Alliance contraption can no longer see them. Their presence isn’t needed anymore.”
“What?” Vol’jin’s question was a strangled cry of disbelief.
“My goal has been accomplished. I wanted the Alliance to be aware of the possible threat to their shores.”
Slowly, Baine got to his hooves. “You… plan to withdraw the fleet,” he said, his voice hollow.
“I do,” Garrosh said, also rising. The two stared at each other.
“Instead of pressing the attack before Theramore can call in aid… you are withdrawing.”
“Yes. And here we have it, tauren. Those are my orders. Are you questioning them?”
The moment strung out, tense and silent save for the sizzle of meat juices dripping into the fire. No one moved, though everyone watching was prepared to.
“You are the warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream,” Baine said finally. “You will do as you wish. I only pray to the Earth Mother that when this debacle is all over, there is a Horde left.”
Before Garrosh could taunt him further, Baine turned and left. Vol’jin was right beside him. As they headed back toward their encampments, they could hear harsh orcish laughter behind them.
The attitude in Theramore was determined and grim. The martial aspect of the city, always present, surged to the forefront. The inn was no longer a place to sit by a fire, enjoying a brew and conversation, but a place where soldiers were quartered, sometimes eight to a room. Cots even covered the floor of the public areas. Dried beans, grains, smoked meats, and containers of fresh water were stockpiled deep in the heart of Foothold Citadel.
A sliver of hope energized the city briefly when the sails of the 7th fleet were spotted on the horizon. The ships, twenty in all, carried not just Stormwind’s finest sailors but also several generals of no small repute. The air grew almost celebratory when the flagship, the Spirit of Tiffin, docked in Theramore Harbor, followed by the rest of the fleet. Despite the urgency, the marines of the flagship disembarked with an abbreviated but precise ceremony, moving to the martial rat-a-tat of a drum so they were lining up facing Jaina, Pained, Tervosh, Kinndy, Vereesa, and the members of the Kirin Tor. Gathered behind them were the citizens of Theramore, their weary, wary faces relaxing as they cheered the men and women who had come to help defend them.
Varian had told Jaina he would send as many as he could, but he had named no names, as he himself was uncertain as to whom he could reach in time. Jaina shielded her eyes from the sun, watching eagerly as ramrod-straight males and females from nearly all the races of the Alliance strode down the gangplank.
“Marcus Jonathan, general of Stormwind, high commander of Stormwind Defense,” one of the marines announced. A large, imposing man wearing heavy plate mail moved with surprising lightness from the plank to the dock. His beard and mustache were full, but his red-brown hair was cropped fairly short. He looked simultaneously relaxed and ready to spring into action in a heartbeat. Jaina was not a particularly short woman, but as he stood and extended a hand to her, she felt very small indeed.
“I was the first King Varian asked, and the first to accept,” he said. “You have done so much for the Alliance, Lady Proudmoore, that it is an honor to be able to assist you.”
“Thank you, General,” she said. “You bring hope with you.”
The next two were dwarves. Jaina had never met them, but she knew who they were, and the tragic reason these two particular dwarves were here and not two others.
“Thaddus Stoutblow o’ the Wildhammer,” the first one said gruffly, saluting her with his hammer rather than shaking her hand.
“Horran Redmane o’ the 7th Legion Base Camp,” the second said.
“You are both most welcome,” Jaina said. “And let me extend my sympathies for the deaths of General Thunderclash and General Marstone.”
Thaddus Stoutblow nodded brusquely. “Aye, the deaths o’ our superiors were nae the ways we wanted tae get our commands, that’s fer sure.”
“But we’ll avenge them,” put in Redmane. “Happy tae come help, Lady. Killin’ Horde is killin’ Horde, nae matter where we do it.”
Even with the Horde all but camped on her doorstep, she regretted the necessity to fight, and such bloodthirst as the two dwarves displayed pained Jaina. However, she merely nodded and turned her attention to the next general.
His hooves clopping gently on the wood of the gangplank, draenei general Tiras’alan strode toward her. She was surprised but pleased to see him, especially after the open, if understandable, hostility displayed by the dwarves toward the Horde. Tiras’alan had been present at the historic moment when Lady Liadrin of the Blood Knights had spoken with the naaru A’dal, renouncing Kael’thas and choosing to serve the Shattered Sun Offensive. He had initially been furious that she would dare approach, after all her people had done. Yet A’dal had shown forgiveness and compassion, and it had been Tiras’alan who had given Lady Liadrin the tabard of the Shattered Sun.
Jaina welcomed the draenei warmly. Strength and gentleness radiated from him, just as golden light seemed to radiate from his armor as he bowed to her.
“I come to protect and defend,” he said. “Word of your great deeds and efforts for peace has reached even Shattrath City, Lady.” His voice was musical and deep. “Theramore must stand. The Horde will not triumph.”
No talk of “killin’ Horde” from the draenei, but his was as firm and earnest a pledge of support as the dwarves had given.
“Your wisdom will be most welcome,” Jaina said. “It will be good to have a paladin’s Light in the battle to come.”
A purple-skinned, blue-haired night elf stepped out, blinking at the sun. Jaina’s eyes widened and she smiled, welcoming this particular ally—Shandris Feathermoon, general of the night elf Sentinels—as a friend.
“Battle sister,” Shandris said, returning the smile gently. “The archdruid and the high priestess send me to you with joy, and it is with joy that I and my Sentinels come to aid you.”
“You and they are most welcome,” said Jaina, realizing that if Shandris had brought some of her people, it was likely that the other generals had brought what could be spared of their finest as well. Garrosh was bringing all the races of the Horde to bear on Theramore; they would be greeted in kind.
The last to stride onto the dock of Theramore Harbor was no general, but a familiar figure nonetheless. Jaina had learned only a short time ago that he had survived the Razing of Northwatch Hold. He had been badly injured and fallen unconscious, and the Horde had left him for dead. Her pleasure at seeing him was followed instantly by shock and grief at his appearance. He had not come through the battle for Northwatch Hold unscathed; he had lost an eye and had a jagged scar marring what had once been a handsome visage. As he walked toward her, she noticed that one leg dragged slightly. He saw where her gaze went and her sympathetic expression on her face, and smiled as much as he could with his damaged face.