As he considered the merits of using ropes and chains to try binding or at least tripping the dragon, several new figures dropped from the clouds. These were considerably smaller than the dragon, perhaps twice the size of a man, with long feathered wings and long tufted tails and proud beaks. And on the back of each of these creatures rode what looked like a short man dressed in strange feathered armor and covered in tattoos and wielding a massive hammer.
"Wildhammers, attack!" Kurdran Wildhammer stood in his saddle and hurled his stormhammer, catching the nearest dragon rider in the chest. The surprised orc did not have time to react but toppled from his own saddle, his chest crushed, both weapon and reins falling from lifeless hands as his body disappeared beneath the waves. His dragon roared in surprise and rage, audible even over the fading thunderclap, but the sound turned to squeals of pain as Sky'ree's sharp claws cut deep into the dragons' flank, slicing neatly through scales and drawing dark blood. Iomhar was beside him, and his own gryphon tore a large chunk from the dragon's left wing with beak and claws, causing the dragon to list dramatically. Then Farand came in on the far side, throwing his own hammer, which struck the dragon a resounding blow to the head. Its eyes lost focus and it fell, sending up a huge wave as it struck the water. It did not resurface.
Kurdran flew over to the largest ship. "We've come to help!" he shouted down at the slender older man standing on the bridge. The man nodded and saluted with the sword in his hand. "We'll handle these beasties," Kurdran assured him. "You take care o' the ships."
Admiral Proudmoore nodded again, and favored him with a tight, nasty grin. "Oh, we will take care of them, sure enough," he told the dwarf. Then he turned back to his pilot. "Keep moving," he ordered. "We'll cut them off as planned, and then tighten the net. I don't want to see a single orc ship escape!"
The Wildhammers attacked the dragons in a fury, killing several and driving the rest back. Proudmoore's remaining ships circled in and began picking off the orc fleet from every side, using cannon and powder and fire to good advantage. He lost another ship when it got too close and the orcs swarmed from their own sinking vessel onto the Alliance ship, slaughtering most of its crew before the dying captain could toss a powder keg into the hold and hole his own ship. And they had lost the Third Fleet and a few scattered others to the dragons. But the orcs lost far more. A handful of their ships made it out of range, but the rest fell before Proudmoore's fury. As for the orcs themselves, a few swam for it or clutched shattered spars and planks, but the rest drowned or died by fire or bolt. Bodies littered the waves.
With the last of the orc fleet disappearing from view, the remaining dragon riders decided there was nothing left to save here. They turned their mounts and fled east toward Khaz Modan, the Wildhammers pursuing them with great whoops and shouts. And Proudmoore surveyed the remains of his fleet, tired but victorious—though at great cost.
"Sir!" one of the sailors shouted. He was leaning over the rail and gesturing at something in the water.
"What is it?" Proudmoore snapped, stepping up beside the man. But his anger changed to hope as he saw what the sailor had seen—someone bobbing in the water, sputtering and clutching to a torn plank.
Someone human.
"Get a rope to him!" Proudmoore ordered, and sailors hastened to obey. "And scan the waters for other survivors!" He wasn't sure how someone from the Third Fleet had wound up this far from where their boats had gone down, but at least one man had. And that meant there could be others.
He could not prevent the tiny flash of hope that Derek might be one of them.
That hope turned to confusion and then to fury, however, when the man was finally hauled aboard. Instead of the green tunic of Kul Tiras, the half—drowned man wore the waterlogged garb of Alterac. And there was only one way one of Perenolde's men could have wound up here in the Great Sea with the orc fleet.
"What were you doing on an orc boat?" Proudmoore demanded, kneeling with his knee on the man's chest. Already weak and out of breath, the man gasped and turned pale. "Speak!"
"Lord Perenolde…sent us," the man managed to blurt out. "We…guided them to their…ships. He told…us…to render…any assistance…necessary."
"Traitor!" Proudmoore drew his dagger and laid it across the man's neck. "Conspiring with the Horde! I should gut you like a fish and toss your innards into the sea!" He pressed slightly and watched as a thin red line appeared along the man's skin, the sharp edge parting his flesh easily. But then he drew back and rose to his feet again.
"Such a death is too good for you," Proudmoore announced, resheathing his dagger. "And alive you can provide proof of Perenolde's treachery." He turned to one of the nearby sailors. "Bind him and toss him into the brig," he ordered brusquely. "And search for any other survivors. The more evidence we have, the quicker Perenolde will hang."
"Yes, sir!" The men saluted and hurried about their tasks. It took another hour before they were sure they had scoured the waters completely. They found three more men, all of whom confirmed the first's story. There were countless orcs in the water as well, but those they let drown.
"Set sail for Southshore," Proudmoore told his pilot after the last Alterac traitor had been hauled aboard. "We will rejoin the Alliance army, and report both our success and Alterac's betrayal. Keep your eyes peeled for those orc ships that escaped our attack." Then he turned away, heading for his cabin, where he could at last give in to his own grief. And, after that, write a letter to his wife, informing her what had befallen their eldest son.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"They are not coming."
Young Tharbek turned, startled by his leader's sudden pronouncement. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Doomhammer grimaced. "The rest of the Horde. They are not coming."
Tharbek looked around. "You sent them all the way down to the Great Sea," he pointed out carefully, wary of drawing his superior's wrath. "It will take them many days to return."
"They have dragons, you fool!" Doomhammer's fist lashed out, catching Tharbek across the cheek and sending the younger orc staggering back. "The dragon riders would have been here days ago to inform us of the troops' progress! Something has happened! The fleet is gone, and the bulk of our forces with it!"
Tharbek nodded, rubbing his cheek sullenly with one hand, but said nothing. He didn't have to. Doomhammer knew what his Second was thinking—if he had not sent the other clans after Gul'dan in the first place, this would not be an issue now.
Doomhammer ground his teeth together. Why was it no one else among his people understood the reasons behind his decision? He had seen the same look from every other orc these past few days, ever since he had ordered the retreat from Capital City. The gates had already been showing small cracks, and bowed with each strike of the battering ram. The city's guards had long since exhausted their oil supply and were reduced to pouring boiling water on them. The Alliance forces had been pushed back across the lake, and were being held at the bridge. They had almost won! Another day, two at the most, and the city would have cracked. And then he had sent the army away, leaving them too weak to continue here.
Nor had the Alliance been slow to capitalize on the sudden reversal. The humans had poured across the bridge immediately after the Blackhands had led their clan away, crashing through the handful of remaining orc defenders and pushing their way out onto the battlefield. The orcs had found themselves trapped between horsemen and foot soldiers on the one side and entrenched guards on the other. And they had no help in sight. It would take days or even weeks for the rest of the Horde to return, just as Tharbek had said, and that was assuming they were able to defeat Gul'dan and his warlocks and his ogres and whatever else he had conjured to aid him in his treachery. The warriors still trapped in or beyond the mountains he had to assume were dead by now, killed by whatever humans had retaken the passes and closed that route to them. The orcs standing before the city were all he had left for the assault.