But perhaps it was time for a withdrawal. Or at least time to plan for one. Garrosh and the “loyal” Horde—the ones who drank in taverns in Orgrimmar as opposed to Razor Hill—were still in the throes of selfcongratulation for their despicable actions. The Kor’kron, or at least that filth Malkorok, had made it very clear that they were so convinced of ultimate victory that they were willing to eliminate those Horde members who dared speak against Garrosh in private and, presumably, public.
Under Thrall, the Horde had been good to the trolls. But now—Vol’jin had lost many fine soldiers in the last two battles. And this was how he was repaid? No. Time to go home, at least for now, since home was so close; time to sink deep into meditation and see what the loa had to say. He recalled his words to Garrosh from some time ago, that the orc would spend his reign glancing over his shoulder—and that in his last moments, the warchief would know exactly who had killed him.
It seemed that the decision was the right one. Even before he reached the Echo Isles, he was met by a canoe. The shaman in the stern had his arms raised, and the water directly beneath the boat was moving faster than it should have; he was using the elements to bear him to his leader as swiftly as possible.
Vol’jin didn’t even wait until the other boat pulled alongside him. Asking the loa to help him make his voice carry, he cried, “What is it, mon? What be wrong?”
The shaman answered, his voice borne to Vol’jin’s long ears on the anxious wind, “Alliance! Dey comin’! A whole lot of dem!”
Garrosh roared in anger and threw his mug across the table. “Alliance? Here? Our intelligence said they were gathering at Darkshore!”
The hapless troll whose job had been to inform the warchief flinched slightly, although the mug had not been hurled in his direction. “I doan know about dat, Wahchief, but dey sure be closin’ in on Bladefist Bay. Dere be dozens of ships. Whatchu wan’ us to do?”
Garrosh recovered from his outburst almost immediately. “Tell Baine to send druids to every port that we are blockading. Our fleet needs to redirect immediately. And Northwatch—order them here, every last ship! Now!”
And then, to the confusion of the troll messenger, a crafty smile crossed Garrosh’s face. “And all the magi… bring them to me. The plan I have can work as well in Bladefist Bay as in Darkshore.”
Varian stood on the deck of the Lion of the Waves as they approached Kalimdor. The draenei shaman had been doing a stellar job of imploring the wind and the waves for aid, and the fleet had crossed the ocean in record time with fair winds and calm seas. They were now but a few miles off the coast of Bladefist Bay. Varian was the leader of the Alliance forces but not the captain of the Lion of the Waves, and took care to let Telda Stonefist do her job. Indeed, it was an easy task—Telda knew what she was doing, and for all her small stature, every sailor jumped when she barked an order.
Now as Varian strode to stand beside her, the spray from the wind dampening both their hair, she handed him a spyglass. “There’s yer first glimpse o’ th’ bay,” she said.
Varian placed the instrument to his right eye. There was only one ship at the dock, though he knew the path through to Orgrimmar would be hard-fought. “Looks as if the single ship in the harbor is of goblin construction.”
“Which means that one good shot should blow th’ whole thing skyhigh.” Telda grinned.
Varian felt a tingle of unease. It was a remnant of Lo’Gosh, a heightening of all the senses, including those that went beyond the usual five. He turned to face into the briskly blowing wind, sniffing, and lifted the spyglass again to his eye. Only sea and sky, different shades of blue.
Slowly, he turned in every direction. Blue sea, blue sky…
Something that was not blue, a small speck on the horizon.
“There,” Varian cried, pointing to the south. “Ships!”
Somehow, Garrosh had anticipated him.
“All hands, battle stations!” shouted Telda in a voice that seemed far too loud to have issued from such a short frame. Everyone jumped into action. Swiftly the well-trained marines leaped to the cannons. Magi climbed the rigging, the better to aim the devastating fireballs that wreaked such havoc on wooden sailing vessels. And the shaman rushed to the sides of the ship, more than any others putting themselves in harm’s way, to urge the elements to assist them by showing they were willing to risk themselves as well.
The horns were sounded, and one by one, the ships that had been sailing due east swung about, ready to face the threat from the south. Varian scrambled up the rigging himself, holding on with one hand while bringing the spyglass to his eye.
There were several ships sailing steadily toward them, but the Horde was wildly outmatched. Varian nodded. He didn’t know how Garrosh had expected them—perhaps a deep-sea fishing vessel had spotted the armada and hastened back to sound the alarm—but it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that the Horde had indeed focused on the blockade, and it was throwing all it had at the Alliance. Which was not much.
“Jaina,” he murmured, quickly lowering himself to the deck, “you were right about one thing at least. Perhaps we can end this here and now.”
At first, there was almost a giddy atmosphere. It was clear that the Horde had fallen for the disinformation spread by the Alliance spies and that its navy was busily engaged in guarding shores that would not come under attack. The few ships from Northwatch Hold were little more than practice targets. Bladefist Bay, still and quiet and almost bored, now erupted into an ocean battlefield.
Heedless of his own safety, Varian climbed the rigging again and peered over the ocean. He could see a mere three or four ships, struggling in his direction as fast as they could. Their sails, too, billowed with wind; the Horde had had shaman far longer than the Alliance had and no doubt was demanding all they could give.
“Hard about port!” Telda shouted. Varian tightened his grip on the wet ropes as the ship swung hard to the left, turning to face the threat from the south. For a moment, he almost—almost—felt sorry for the crews in the ships the Alliance were about to blow out of the water.
“Fire!”
The Lion of the Waves was rattled by the sound of all its cannons exploding, disgorging their contents upon the enemy. Some cannonballs splashed harmlessly into the water, but most struck their target—the lead ship—dead on. Cheers went up as the side of the Horde vessel was nearly completely caved in.
And then the wood began mending itself. It would seem that in addition to experienced shaman, the crew of this ship also had skillful druids. Varian swore, climbed down swiftly, and dropped the rest of the way.
“Warlocks, at the ready!” he shouted. It was always uneasy when those who worked with demons were pressed into service for the good of the Alliance, but they had certain spells—and certain creatures in thrall—whose efficacy was undeniable. They hurried to the sides, their black and purple and other dark-hued robes flowing about them, and summoned their minions. As one, they lifted their arms and began to chant their ugly-sounding spells.
Fire rained down, steady and pervasive, on the already-damaged ship. Small, cackling demons known as imps were sent to dance upon the enemy vessel, throwing fire hither and thither. The fact that they seemed to enjoy the destruction they wrought was an added bonus.
“Magi!” cried Varian, his eyes fastened on the Horde ship. Enormous fireballs joined the steady, deadly rain of flame. The cannons roared again, and the enemy vessel could take no more. It cracked in two, and Varian saw with satisfaction many Horde soldiers leaping frantically into the waters of the bay. Still more were going down with the ship.