Tides of Darkness

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Let's go!" Doomhammer shouted. "Get your gear and get moving!" He watched the warriors for a moment, as their chieftains shouted and shoved and punched to get them ready, then turned back to Gul'dan, who stood waiting patiently nearby. "What?" he demanded.

"My clan and I will remain here for a time," Gul'dan replied. "I have other plans for the Altars of Storms, plans that will aid the Horde in its conquest."

Doomhammer frowned. He still did not trust the short, ugly warlock. But he had to admit that the two—headed ogres had proven immensely useful in the battle to take Quel'Thalas. True, those cursed dwarves and their gryphons had interfered, and cost him several of the creatures, but without the ogres they might not have broken the Alliance lines and been able to regroup. Finally he nodded. "Do what you must," he told Gul'dan. "But do not take too long. We will need every advantage if we want to conquer Lordaeron quickly."

"I will not delay," Gul'dan assured him, grinning. "You are right—speed is of the essence." The way he said it troubled Doomhammer, but just then Zuluhed came running up and the chief warlock slipped away from Doomhammer's penetrating gaze while he was listening to the latest report about the forest's remaining defenders.

"We cannot breach their defenses," the Dragonmaw chieftain was saying. He looked more angry than apologetic. "Even the dragons can do nothing," he insisted, shaking his head. "Their fire washes over the city but does not touch it, and their claws are repelled by an invisible barrier they cannot break."

"It is the Sunwell," Gul'dan commented, turning back to take part in the conversation. "The elven source of magic. It gives them immense power."

Of course the warlock would know about such a thing, Doomhammer reasoned. "Is there any way to destroy it, or drain it, or tap it for ourselves?" he asked.

But Gul'dan shook his head. "I have tried," he admitted. "I can feel its power but it is of a kind unfamiliar to me, and I cannot touch it." He scratched at his bristly beard. "I suspect only the elves can gain its power, for it is tied to them and this land."

"Can you use the Altars to break their defenses?" was Doomhammer's next question.

Gul'dan grinned again. "That is one of the things I am attempting," he replied. "I do not yet know if it will work, but the Altars are crafted from the elves' own Runestones, which were originally powered by the Sunwell. I may be able to use that link in reverse, sending my own magic into their power source and either destroying it or wresting it away from them." It was clear which one the warlock would prefer, and Doomhammer disliked the idea of placing such potency in his hands. But that would still be better than leaving it to these strange, silent, deadly elves.

"Do what you can," he told Gul'dan again. "But breaching the city is secondary. We cannot get in right now but they cannot get out, either." He turned back to Zuluhed, who stood waiting. "The same goes for your dragons. We may need them, particularly if the Alliance has more warriors waiting at Capital City. If you have not managed to break their barrier after a few more days, leave it and send your dragons to join the rest of the Horde." He glanced at Gul'dan, who had already walked beyond hearing range. "And make sure he and his warlocks accompany you."

Zuluhed grinned. "I will drag him with us if I have to order a dragon to snap him up and carry him in its belly," he promised.

Doomhammer nodded. Then he left the Dragonmaw chieftain to speak with his dragon riders, and went to make sure his own Blackrock warriors were ready to set out toward their next target.

It was another two hours before the Horde finally moved out. Gul'dan and Cho'gall watched as the waves of orc warriors marched from Quel'Thalas, tramping over the charred remains of the trees that had fallen to the dragons' flames. Fully a third of the forest had burned, and that stretch was littered with soot and ash and the stray leaf that had crisped but not yet crumbled. The warriors had camped there, feeling more comfortable in the open air than under the remaining trees even if the ground was littered with bits of bark and leaf and nut, and now clouds of soot rose from the many feet stomping back across and toward the foothills and the mountains beyond. Doomhammer strode at their head, his long legs eating up the distance, his weapon bouncing slightly against his back and legs as he walked. He did not look around, clearly confident that he was in no danger whatsoever.

Gul'dan waited until the last marching orc had vanished from view. Then he turned to Cho'gall. "Are we ready?"

Both of the Twilight's Hammer chieftain's heads grinned. "Ready," he replied.

Gul'dan nodded. "Good. Tell your warriors we march at once. It is a long way back to Southshore." He rubbed at his beard. "Zuluhed is occupied with that elven city, and will not even notice we have gone until it is too late."

"What if he sends his dragons after us?" Cho'gall asked, his normal disregard for danger faltering at the thought of those massive creatures hurtling down upon them.

"He will not," Gul'dan assured the ogre. "He would not dare do so without Doomhammer's orders, and that means first sending a messenger after the rest of the Horde and then waiting for a reply. We will be well beyond his reach by then, and Doomhammer will not be able to spare any of his remaining troops to come after us, not if he wants to take that human city." He laughed. For weeks he had been trying to think of a way to break free of Doomhammer and pursue his own agenda, and the Warchief had actually handed him the perfect solution! He had half—expected Doomhammer to insist he accompany the rest of the Horde on the march, but the elves' resistance had provided him with the perfect excuse to remain behind.

"I will see to the warriors," Cho'gall promised, and turned away, already bellowing orders. Gul'dan nodded and moved off to gather his own gear. He was looking forward to this march. Each step would take him farther from Doomhammer and his careful scrutiny, and bring him closer to his destiny.

Doomhammer crept down the narrow trail that cut into the mountain peak, heading toward the small valley below. It was night and the rest of the Horde was sleeping, but he had urgent business to attend. He moved silently, his boots finding solid purchase on the well—worn rock, one hand holding his hammer so that it did not bounce across his back and glance against the rock walls, the other in front of him to help him feel his way down the path. The moon was half—full overhead, providing him ample light, and he could hear the chirping of some insect nearby. Otherwise the mountains were silent.

He had nearly reached the valley when he heard different noises. The sound of someone—or something—roughly orc—sized moving clumsily toward the valley from the far side. Doomhammer crouched down, using the sides of the trail for cover, and tugged his hammer from his shoulder, holding it before him. He peered out cautiously, waiting as the sounds grew louder. Then he saw movement off to one side and watched as a cloaked figure pulled itself up the last incline and stepped into the valley.

It was not much of a valley, more of a nook, perhaps twenty feet wide and fifteen feet deep, but the rocks rose on every side, providing it with both some shelter and decent concealment. Presumably that was the reason it had been selected.

As Doomhammer watched unmoving the figure leaned against one of the rocks, gasping for breath, then straightened and looked around. "Hello?" the cloaked man called softly.

"I am here," Doomhammer replied, straightening and stepping between the rocks to leave the trail and enter the valley himself. The stranger straightened and gave a small gasp as he approached. Doomhammer could see a longsword at the man's side, well—made and unblemished, and knew this stranger had never used it. Why did he repeatedly find himself dealing with cowards and weaklings and schemers? he wondered. Why not warriors, who were far more direct in their desires and blunt about their intended methods? He had seen the man leading the Alliance armies at Quel'Thalas, and a different man leading them in the Hillsbrad, and had been impressed by both. They would be fighters, following a code of honor and respecting strength and honesty. But of course such men never would have requested a meeting such as this one.

"Y—you are Lord Doomhammer?" the man stammered, shrinking back from him slightly. "You speak Common?"

"I am Orgrim Doomhammer, chieftain of the Blackrock clan and warchief of the Horde and I know your tongue," Doomhammer confirmed. "And you, human? You sent me that message?"

"I am," the man replied, tugging at his hood as if to make sure it still concealed his face. It was of fine cloth, Doomhammer saw, and richly embroidered along the hems. "I thought it might be best if we met before any…unpleasantness occurred." He spoke slowly, as if to a child.

"Very well." Doomhammer glanced around, making sure the human had not brought assassins, but if so he was unable to scent or hear them. He had to take the risk that this human really had come alone, as his strange message had claimed.

"I had not expected a human to contact me," Doomhammer admitted quietly, crouching so he could study the man more easily. "Especially in such a manner. Is that how you humans communicate? By use of trained birds?"

"It is one method, yes," the man replied. "I knew none of my people would be able to get close enough to convey a message to you and was not sure how else to reach you, so I sent the bird. Did you kill it?"

Doomhammer nodded, unable to hold back the grin that crossed his face. The man started and broke into a sweat at the sight. "We did not realize it was a messenger until we found the parchment tied to its leg. By then it was too late. I hope you did not want it back."

His companion waved the apology aside with one slender gloved hand. His hand shook but his voice was almost steady. "It was only a bird," he pointed out. "I am more interested in preventing a much larger number of regrettable deaths."

Doomhammer nodded. "So your message said. What do you want from me?"

"Assurances," the man replied.

"Of what sort?"

"I want your word, as a warrior and a leader, that you will keep your warriors in check," the man answered. "No killing, raiding, razing, or other atrocities here in the mountains. Leave our cities and villages intact and do not hound or hunt our people."

Doomhammer considered this, idly rubbing his hammer's head with one hand. "And what do we gain in return?"

Now the man smiled, a cold expression meant no doubt to be friendly but seeming only conniving. "Free passage," he answered slowly, letting the two words hang in the still night air.

"Oh?" Doomhammer tilted his head, indicating that the man should continue.

"You and your warriors seek to cross the mountains and invade Lordaeron," the man pointed out. "These peaks are treacherous, and it is easy for those who know them to combat much larger forces. Your Horde might still win through, but only with heavy losses. And then you would be weakened in your battle against Lordaeron and its defenders." He smiled again and leaned back against the rock, clearly pleased with his reading of the situation, and his ability to alter it. "I can make sure this region's defenders stay clear of your army," he said confidently. "I will even show you which paths to take to cross the distance more rapidly. Your Horde can pass through the mountains quickly and unopposed."

Doomhammer considered this. "You will clear the way for us," he said out loud, "in exchange for our leaving your lands unharmed in return?"

The man nodded. "That is correct."

Doomhammer stood and stepped forward, until he was less than two feet from the man. This close he could make out some of the stranger's features beneath the hood, and they were narrow and elegant and calculating despite his obvious fear. The man reminded him of Gul'dan in some ways, clever and out for his own gain, but most likely too cowardly to betray a stronger force. "Very well," he said finally. "I agree. Show me the quickest path through these mountains and I will lead my warriors through at speed, without stopping for plunder. When we conquer this land I will place my protection around these mountains, that none may violate them. You and yours shall be safe."

"Excellent." The cloaked man smiled and clapped his hands together like a child. "I knew you would be reasonable." He pulled a rolled—up parchment from his belt and handed it to Doomhammer. "Here is a map of this area," he explained. "I have marked this valley to help orient you."

Doomhammer unrolled the map and studied it. "Yes, this is very clear," he said after a moment.

"Good." The man watched him a second. "I will return to my own people, then," he said after a pause.

Doomhammer nodded but did not say anything, and after a moment the man turned and walked quickly away, ducking back between the rocks and carefully working his way down the cliff beyond the valley. For a moment Doomhammer considered going after him. A single quick blow would finish such a man, and he already had the map. But that would be dishonorable. One of the things he hated about his own people, about what they had become, was their lack of honor. Before, on Draenor, they had been a noble race. But Gul'dan's treachery had changed all that, making them little more than bloodthirsty savages. Doomhammer was determined to restore his race's pride and purity, and that meant following a strict code of behavior. The man had treated with him in good faith, and Doomhammer would not betray that. He would follow the path the man had marked, and if it proved quick and the human troops did not block them he would honor his half of the agreement.

With a shake of his head Doomhammer rerolled the scroll and stuck it in his own belt, then turned back to toward the trail he had used to reach this valley. He would summon his lieutenants once he returned and show them the route they would take.

"You summoned us, your Majesty?" General Hath, the commander of Alterac's forces, stood at the half—opened door to the map room. Perenolde could see the other army commanders behind the stout general.

"Yes, come in, General, officers," Perenolde said, trying to keep his voice calm beckoning them in. "I have just received some new information about the Horde and its movements, and wished to share it with you."

He saw Hath and a few of the others exchange quick glances, but they said nothing as they followed him over to the impressive tapestry—map covering the far wall. It showed Alterac from edge to edge, with towns and forts picked out in silver thread and the castle itself in gold.

"I have it under good authority," Perenolde began, "that the Horde is indeed heading toward us." Several of the officers gasped. "They apparently plan to invade Lordaeron, and have chosen to cross the mountains and approach Capital City from the north side."

"How far away are they?" Colonel Kavdan asked urgently. "How many of them are there? What sort of weapons are they carrying?" Several of the others were murmuring behind him.

Perenolde held up a hand and the officers fell silent. "I do not know how far away they are," he answered, "though I suspect a day, perhaps two, no more. I have no idea of their numbers, but certainly from all reports they are a formidable force." He smiled, though he knew it was weak. "That, however, is no longer our concern."

General Hath straightened. "Not our concern, your Majesty?" he asked, his breath setting his thick graying mustache aflutter. "But we are part of the Alliance, and have pledged ourselves to battling the Horde together."

"The situation has changed," Perenolde informed him, aware that he was sweating heavily—and that his officers had noticed. "I have reconsidered our options, and have decided to realign ourselves in the conflict. Alterac is no longer a part of the Alliance, effective immediately." He took a deep breath. "Believe me, we are far better off this way."

The officers all looked surprised. "How do you mean, your Majesty?" Kavdan asked.

"I have formed a nonaggression treaty with the Horde," Perenolde replied. "We will not hinder their progress through the mountains, and in return they will leave Alterac unharmed and untouched."

His officers looked troubled, a few of them even angry or ill. "You would have us conspire with the orcs, your Majesty?" Hath asked softly, disgust evident in his tone.

"Yes, I would have us conspire with them!" Perenolde snapped, losing his composure. "Because I would have us survive!" He let his anger, and his terror, boil over into his words. "Do you have any idea what we are facing? The Horde, the entire Horde, is planning to sweep through these mountains! Through our home! Do you have any idea how many of them there are? Thousands! Tens of thousands!" Hath nodded grudgingly, as did a few of the others—they had seen the same reports he had. "And do you have any idea what these orcs are like? I have seen one of them, no farther away from me than you are now. They are enormous! Nearly as tall as trolls, and twice as wide! Massively muscled, with tusks and fangs—this one carried a hammer it would take three men to lift, and he waved it about as if it were a child's toy! No man could stand against that! They'll kill us all, don't you understand? They've already destroyed Stormwind, and Alterac will be next!"

"But the Alliance — " Hath began. Perenolde laughed bitterly.

"The Alliance what?" he demanded. "Where are they now? Not here, I'll tell you that! We formed the Alliance to protect our kingdoms against exactly this sort of attack, but here we are with the Horde breathing down our necks and the precious Alliance is nowhere in sight. They've abandoned us, don't you see?" He could hear his voice rising to near—hysteria, and sought to rein it back in. "It is every kingdom for itself now," he told them as calmly as he could manage. "I have to think about Alterac first. The other kings would do the same."

"Yes, but these brutes—" another officer, Trand, started.

"— are monstrous and deadly, yes," Perenolde cut him off. "But they are not incapable of reason. I met with their leader. He spoke Common! He listened, and he agreed to leave us in peace if we do not hinder their passage."

"Can we—can we trust them?" A junior officer named Verand asked, and Perenolde let out a small sigh as he saw a few others nod. If they were asking that, they had already accepted that such a treaty might be necessary—now they were only worried about whether it would be upheld.

"We have no choice," he replied slowly. "They can crush us with barely a thought. If they betray us, we are finished. But if they hold to their word—and I think they will—Alterac will survive. No matter the cost."

"I still do not like this," Hath said stubbornly. "We gave our word to the other nations." He looked uncertain, however, and Perenolde knew the general was considering the situation and realizing that this might in fact be their only hope for survival.

"You do not have to like it," Perenolde replied sharply. "You only have to obey. I am king here, and I have made my decision. You have sworn oaths to me, and you will abide by them." He knew that would not stop them if they disagreed, but he hoped he had managed to convince them, at least enough to let their fealty sway them the rest of the way.

Hath studied him for a moment. "As you say, your Majesty," he stated finally. "I will obey." The others nodded as well.

Perenolde smiled. "Good. And as for the Alliance, I will accept any and all consequences personally." He turned back toward the map. "Now then, the Horde will come through here, here, and here," he said, indicating the southern passes on the map. He was annoyed to discover that his hand was shaking. "We have merely to leave these passes unmanned and the Horde will pass by without our ever encountering a single orc."

Hath was studying the locations. "They must be planning to strike Lordaeron from the north," he mused, tracing a line across the edge of the tapestry to where the city would lay if the image continued. "I would not have taken that approach myself, but then I don't have their numbers—or their arrogance." He turned back to Perenolde, his expression dubious. "The men may object, your Majesty," he stated coldly. "They may feel this is a betrayal of our oaths, or worse." His tone left little doubt that he agreed with them. "If they revolt, we will be unable to stop them."

Perenolde considered that. "Very well," he said after a moment. "Tell the soldiers that the Horde is planning to use only the three northernmost passes. If any ask how you acquired this information, hint that we had scouts and spies discover it at the cost of their own lives." He nodded, pleased with his own cleverness. "That should keep everyone occupied and safely out of the way."

Hath nodded brusquely. "I will station our men there at once, your Majesty," he promised crisply.

"That's fine." Perenolde favored the general with the warmest smile he could manage, to show that all was forgiven. "Now you'd best get them moving. We don't want to risk the orcs arriving while our troops are still moving into position."

The officers saluted and filed out of the map room—all except Hath.

"What is it, General?" Perenolde asked, not having to fake the weariness in his voice.

"There's been a messenger, sire," the general answered. "From the Alliance. He arrived while you were…resting." Hath gave a pointed glance at the cloak that lay tossed on a chair in the corner, his look saying clearly that he knew Perenolde had been outside the castle, and why. "He's waiting outside, sire."

"Show him in at once," Perenolde replied, striding over to the chair and scooping up his cloak. "Did you speak with him?"

"Only to ascertain who sent him," Hath assured him. "I knew you would want to hear his news first." The general was already at the map room door when he said this, and he beckoned to someone waiting outside. A young man in travel—stained leathers entered, looking down at the floor nervously.

"Your Majesty," the young man said, glancing up briefly and then away again. "I bring you greetings and a message from Lord Anduin Lothar, Commander of the Alliance."

Perenolde nodded and crossed to stand near the youth, tugging his cloak around him as he moved. "Thank you, General, that will be all for now," he told Hath, who looked relieved as he obediently left the room, shutting the door behind him. "Now, young man," Perenolde continued, turning back to the messenger, "what is this message you carry?"

"Lord Lothar says you are to bring your troops to Lordaeron," the young man replied nervously. "The Horde is likely to attack the city there, and your forces must aid in its defense."

"I see." Perenolde nodded, rubbing at his chin with the fingers of one hand. He reached out and laid the other arm across the youth's shoulder. "And does he expect you to report back on our progress?" he asked.

The messenger nodded.

"I see," Perenolde said again. "That is a shame." He turned toward the youth, his arm tightening to tug him closer, and stabbed with the dagger in his other hand. The blade passed up below the ribs and into the young man's heart, and he jerked, blood spilling from his mouth, before collapsing. Perenolde caught him before he could hit the floor, and eased him down.

"It would have been far better if the message had been a written one," Perenolde said softly to the corpse, wiping his dagger on the body before resheathing it. Then he dragged the body across the room and to the garderobe in the corner, tipping it in and listening to the dull thuds as it bumped the walls on the way down. As an afterthought he removed his cloak, now blood—spattered beyond any hope of cleaning, and tossed it in as well. A shame—he'd quite liked the embroidery.

After waiting a minute, Perenolde closed the curtain over the garderobe and walked back across the room. If Hath was waiting outside he would tell the general that the messenger had needed to leave so urgently he had allowed the use of his private exit. Otherwise he would simply tell Hath next time they met that the young man had returned to the Alliance. And of course his message had been simply to hold fast against the Horde. Perenolde smiled. He could all but guarantee that no orc would force its way past their defenses. The other mountain paths were another matter entirely.

Bradok clutched to the reins but not out of fear. He had forgotten all that the first time his dragon had taken wing, carrying him high into the sky. It was amazing, soaring among the clouds, and Bradok, who had always been a dutiful warrior but never more than content, had suddenly discovered true happiness. He was meant for this, meant to sail the skies, his massive red dragon beating its wings, the wind rushing through the crest of his hair. He still remembered the thrill of seeing flames spew from his dragon's mouth, and watching the trees burst from the sudden heat that incinerated them as soon as it touched them.

Glancing down, Bradok saw a stretch of silver amid the greens and browns of this rich world. That was the sea, he knew, the same one they had crossed after sacking that other kingdom not long ago.

Tapping his dragon with his heels, Bradok urged his mount lower and the dragon responded, furling its wings and diving down in a steep, exhilarating rush. The sea swelled in Bradok's vision, stretching almost to the horizon, and now he could see the dark shapes strung out where the sea met the shore. Those would be their ships, the ones that had carried the Horde from the other continent to this one. Bradok hated ships. He wasn't overly fond of water, either. But the air, that was a wonderful thing.

Pulling his dragon out of the dive, Bradok coasted over the ships, seeing the poor orcs seated in the benches all down their lengths, pulling on the long oars that kept the boat moving. An ogre stood near the center of each ship, beating time on a massive drum, and the orcs pulled in time, their steady strokes sending the dark ships sliding back into the water.

Bradok paused abruptly, and wheeled his dragon around for a second look. Yes, he had been right the first time. The ships were leaving the shore and returning to the sea. But they were supposed to be sitting idle, in case the Horde needed them again. Why were they moving now?

Glancing around, Bradok spied a familiar figure on the lead boat. It was Gul'dan, the warlock. Bradok had feared him, as did most of the orcs, but not anymore. He was a dragon rider now. What could he possibly have to be afraid of?

Angling his dragon around, Bradok swooped toward the lead ship. Gul'dan turned toward him as he approached.

"Why are you taking the boats?" Bradok shouted, waving his free arm while his dragon kept pace with the ship. The warlock looked puzzled, and held up both hands in confusion. Bradok coaxed his dragon closer. "You need to turn the boats around! The Horde is in Lordaeron, not across the sea!" he shouted again. Still Gul'dan gestured that he could not hear him. This time Bradok managed to bring his dragon almost on top of the ship, so he was barely ten feet from the warlock. "I said—" Suddenly Gul'dan's hand shot forward, a green ray lancing from it to Bradok's chest. He felt a burst of intense pain, and sensed his lungs tighten and his heart falter, then gasped as both stopped working altogether. The world turned dark with a rush, and Bradok toppled from his saddle, narrowly missing the ship and plummeting toward the waves. His last thought was that at least he'd had a chance to fly.

Gul'dan sneered as he watched the dragon rider's body disappear beneath the water. He'd needed the fool to get close before his magic would work fast enough to prevent retaliation. He'd also worried what the dragon itself might do with its rider dead, and watched warily as the massive red beast reared up, tilting its head back to release a fierce cry, and then beat its wings hard and shot up into the sky. Gul'dan watched long enough to make sure the dragon was not circling around for an attack and then turned back to watching the water flow past the ship's prow.

He didn't see the second figure soaring high above. Torgus had been racing Bradok before his friend had spotted the ships, and had seen everything. Now he wheeled his dragon around and headed back toward Quel'Thalas at top speed. Zuluhed would want to know what had happened, and Torgus suspected he would be flying off to inform the rest of the Horde, and perhaps even Doomhammer himself, as well.

The passes were utterly deserted, as promised, and Doomhammer led his warriors through them at a fast run. He had thought the cloaked stranger would keep his word, and glad to see his guess had been correct, but still this route was dangerous. With such narrow stone passes it would only take a handful of warriors to block their way, and once a few bodies piled up each pass would be too choked to allow passage of any sort. So he hurried his troops along, knowing he would be happier once they had left this cold mountain region far behind.

It took them two days to cross the snow—covered mountains and descend into foothills on the far side. In that time the orcs did not see a single human. Some of the warriors even grumbled that they had missed the chance to kill anyone during their passage, but their chieftains assured them they would get their chance.

On the second day the front ranks of the Horde poured down from the mountains. Doomhammer was leading them as always, and he stopped to admire the scene before him. Beyond the foothills stretched an enormous lake, its waters glistening silvery green in the early light. On the far side rose more mountains, marching north—south on a slight angle. The mountains the orcs had just crossed were similar except they angled east as they rose. These new peaks angled west, and together the two ranges formed a gargantuan V, with the lake filling the center. And on the lake's northern shore was a majestic walled city.

" Capital City." Doomhammer studied it a moment, then raised his hammer high above him with both hands and bellowed a warcry. The warriors of the Horde took up the cry, and soon the hills around them were echoing with their rage and joy and bloodlust. Doomhammer laughed. The city would know he and his people were here, but after that cry they would be quaking in their boots. And the Horde would be upon them before they could recover.

"To the city!" Doomhammer shouted, raising his hammer again. "We will crush it, and with it the heart of the opposition! Onward, warriors! Let us bring the fight to them while our warcry still echoes in their ears!"

And Doomhammer charged down out of the foothills and onto the plain, angling up and across as he focused upon the massive walled city that was his target.