gone ahead, of course, so that at each town more could gather and join the march on Northwatch. Those who would not participate in the active battle, and they were few—the elderly, the very young, the mothers of suckling babes—nonetheless ran out to cheer Garrosh and his unquestioned victory.
Garrosh, tall and proud on his black-furred, muscular wolf, raised Gorehowl in response to the cheers but seldom dismounted. The pace of the march enabled the army to be seen from far enough away for the warriors, magi, healers, and shaman to fall in step without slowing down the river of Horde that flowed along the road. As they left the Crossroads, where their numbers had swelled, Malkorok brought his mount alongside Garrosh’s. He thumped his chest in a salute, and Garrosh nodded acknowledgment.
“Any word?” Garrosh asked.
“It seems that Baine is indeed loyal to us, for the present,” said Malkorok. “He and the trolls slew the Alliance scouts that hovered at the Great Gate and now march east to Northwatch, as they said they would.”
Garrosh turned to Malkorok. “I commend you for your watchfulness, Malkorok,” he said. “Surely now you see that I hold Baine in the palm of my hand. He is devoted to his people and would not risk them. He knows that I suffer no such hesitation when it comes to the tauren. His protectiveness of them is a trait to both admire and hold in contempt. And,” he added, “to use.”
“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
Garrosh, tall and proud on his black-furred, muscular wolf, raised Gorehowl in response to the cheers but seldom dismounted. The pace of the march enabled the army to be seen from far enough away for the warriors, magi, healers, and shaman to fall in step without slowing down the river of Horde that flowed along the road. As they left the Crossroads, where their numbers had swelled, Malkorok brought his mount alongside Garrosh’s. He thumped his chest in a salute, and Garrosh nodded acknowledgment.
“Any word?” Garrosh asked.
“It seems that Baine is indeed loyal to us, for the present,” said Malkorok. “He and the trolls slew the Alliance scouts that hovered at the Great Gate and now march east to Northwatch, as they said they would.”
Garrosh turned to Malkorok. “I commend you for your watchfulness, Malkorok,” he said. “Surely now you see that I hold Baine in the palm of my hand. He is devoted to his people and would not risk them. He knows that I suffer no such hesitation when it comes to the tauren. His protectiveness of them is a trait to both admire and hold in contempt. And,” he added, “to use.”
“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
Similar Books
