Tides of Darkness

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Are we ready?"

"Ready, sir."

Daelin Proudmoore nodded but did not look away from the view past the starboard rail. "Good. Sound for positions. We attack as soon as they fall within range."

"Yes, sir." The quartermaster saluted and moved to the large brass bell that hung near the pilot's wheel and sounded it, ringing it twice in quick succession. Immediately Proudmoore heard the sounds of running feet and sliding ropes and falling bodies as the men on his flagship rushed to their assigned stations. He smiled. He liked order and precision, and his crew knew it. He had hand—picked each and every one of them, and he'd never sailed with a finer group of men. Not that he would ever say that out loud, but they knew it.

Proudmoore returned his attention to the sea beyond his ship, studying the waves and the sky. Raising his brass spyglass again he peered out through it, searching for the small dark shapes he had spotted once already. There. They were noticeably larger now, and he could count more of them distinctly, rather than seeing the spiked shape he had observed before. He was sure the lookout had an even better view of them up in the crow's nest, and guessed that in another ten minutes the shapes would resolve themselves into the unmistakable form of ships.

Orc ships.

The Horde fleet, to be precise.

Proudmoore banged his fist on the hardwood railing, the only outward sign of his agitation. Finally! He had been dreaming of a chance like this since the war had begun. He had almost jumped when he'd received word from Sir Turalyon that the Horde was heading for Southshore, and had been hard pressed to conceal his excitement when lookouts confirmed that the orc ships were on the Great Sea.

The lookouts had also informed him that the orcs were in two separate groups. The first group had sailed on into the sea at once, and the second group had scrambled to catch up. It was unclear whether they were simply in too much of a hurry to coordinate the two halves better—or if the second group was in fact pursuing the first. Could there be such a thing as orc rebels? Proudmoore didn't know, and he didn't care. It did not matter where they had been going or what they had been doing. All he cared about was that the orc ships had turned back and were making their way across the Great Sea once more, back toward Lordaeron.

And that put them within his grasp.

He could see the ships without the spyglass now. They were moving fast despite having no sails—he had seen a few of the orc ships up close and had marveled at the banks of oars they contained, and the speed they must achieve when powerfully built orcs manned all of them in unison. Of course, what they gained in speed they lost in maneuverability. His own ships could literally sail circles around the orc vessels. He had no intention of showing off, however. Naval battles were a deadly serious business, and Proudmoore intended to see the orc fleet sunk as quickly and efficiently as possible.

And now he waited for them behind the island of Crestfall, just northeast of his own beloved Kul Tiras. Waited with his entire fleet behind him, cannons primed and ready, for the orcs to row themselves right into his path.

And they did.

"Fire!" Proudmoore shouted as the tenth orc ship passed their position. If the orcs had seen them waiting quietly between the two islands, sails furled and lanterns covered, they had given no indication, and the first volley of cannon fire took the targeted ship completely by surprise, destroying most of its middle and causing it to tear in half and sink immediately. "Raise sails, all ahead full!" was his next command, and the ship leaped forward across the water as the sails raised and caught the wind. He knew his gunnery crew was already reloading the cannons, but other sailors stood ready with crossbows and with small casks of gunpowder. "Target the next ship in line," Proudmoore instructed them, and the crewmen nodded. The casks were tossed onto the next orc ship and then the crossbow bolts, which had been wrapped in oil—soaked rags, were lit and fired. One of the casks exploded, spreading fires across the deck, and then another, and that ship was soon blazing merrily, its tar—coated planks quickly consumed. Then Proudmoore's ship was past the row of orc vessels and turning back to attack them from the far side.

It was all going as well as Proudmoore had hoped. The orcs were not mariners and knew little about sailing or about naval combat. They were powerful hand—to—hand fighters, and would be dangerous if they could close with one of his ships and board it, but he had instructed his captains to keep themselves well out of boarding range. Several of his ships had followed him through the orc fleet and were now menacing it from the far side, while a second group remained next to Crestfall and struck from there. A third fleet had sailed up and past, and were now turning back to block the orc ships that had already passed the battle, and the fourth fleet had sailed south to complete the circle. Soon the orc ships would be surrounded, attacked on all sides. Already they had lost three ships, and Proudmoore had yet to suffer a single casualty. He allowed himself a rare smile. Soon the seas would be orc—free once more.

Just then the lookout shouted down. "Admiral! There's something heading toward us—and it's coming from the air!"

Proudmoore looked up and saw the sailor, pale and shaking, staring out to the north. He trained his spyglass in that direction, and soon saw what must have sparked the lookout's cry. Small dark specks were heading toward them out of the clouds. They were too far away to make out clearly, but he could tell there were several of them and that they were approaching fast. He didn't know what the Horde had that could fly, but something in his gut warned Proudmoore this battle was far from over.

Derek Proudmoore glanced up from where he stood beside his pilot. "What was that?" he asked the lookout, but the man had fallen back into the crow's nest and appeared to be shaking too badly to respond. Afraid the man had had some sort of fit, Derek grabbed the nearest rigging and swung himself up and over to the central mast. From there he caught the central rigging line and scaled it to the main spar, which he walked to the crow's nest.

"Gerard?" he asked, peering in at the sailor who was curled up there. "Are you all right?"

Gerard looked up at him, tears in his eyes, but only shook his head and huddled more tightly.

"What is it?" Derek climbed over the side and into the crow's nest proper, crouching beside the sailor. He had known Gerard for years and trusted the man implicitly. But now that he was here he could see that Gerard was not sick at all. He was terrified, scared beyond any ability to speak. And the thought of a brave sailor, a veteran of many battles, being that frightened sent a chill down Derek's spine.

"Did you see something?" he asked gently. Gerard nodded, squeezing his eyes shut as if to erase whatever it was from his memory. "Where?" For a second the lookout shook his head, but finally he pointed a shaky hand to the north.

"You rest," Derek told him softly, Then he stood and turned to see what had frightened his friend and crewmate so—and nearly collapsed himself at the sight before him.

There, swooping down out of the clouds, was a dragon, its scales gleaming blood—red in the early morning light. Behind it came a second, and a third, and then several more, until at least a dozen of the massive creatures flew together, their leathery wings beating hard to keep them aloft and drive them closer to their target.

The fleet.

Derek barely noticed the anguish plain in the lead dragon's great golden eyes, or the green—skinned figure perched on its back. His mind was too busy calculating the impact the creatures could have upon this battle. Each one was larger than any ship but a destroyer, considerably faster and more agile, and airborne. Those massive claws could probably tear through hulls with ease, or snap masts like twigs. He had to warn the rest of the fleet—he had to warn his father!

Turning, Derek leaned over the crow's nest to shout down to his pilot. A movement caught his eye as he shifted, however, and he glanced up again. The lead dragon was close now, close enough for Derek to see the grin of the orc on its back, and it opened its long mouth wide. Derek saw a long, serpentine tongue surrounded by sharp triangular teeth almost as tall as he was. Then he saw a glow deep within the dragon's maw. It rushed forward, expanding as it came, and suddenly the world burst around him. He did not even have time to scream before the flames consumed him, and his body crumbled as it fell, burned to mere ash.

In a single swoop the dragons destroyed the Third Fleet, all six ships. Everyone on board perished. And then the dragon riders brought their mounts back around, turning them toward the first fleet and the ships that stood between the orcs and freedom.

"Damn them! Damn them all!" Admiral Proudmoore clung to the railing so hard he thought either his fingers would break or they would gouge out chunks of wood. He watched the last traces of the Third Fleet's destroyer sink beneath the waves, mere cinders upon the sea. He knew there was no chance Derek or any of the other crew had survived.

But grief would come later, if he lived that long. Pushing aside all thoughts of his eldest son, Proudmoore concentrated on the tactical implications. The north was now open once more. The orc ships could simply row on, while the dragons harried his own fleet and forced them to give way. If that happened the orcs would be able to land again at the Hillsbrad or at Southshore, and could rejoin the rest of the Horde. And he would have failed.

That was unacceptable.

"Bring us around!" he ordered, startling his pilot into motion. "I want half our ships sweeping north and blocking their path again! The rest stay where they are and continue the attack!"

The sailor nodded. "But—the dragons," he began, though his hands were already turning the great wheel and bringing the ship around.

"They are foes like any other," Proudmoore replied sharply. "We will simply target them as we would enemy ships."

His men nodded, and jumped to obey his orders. Sails were furled as the ship turned and tacked into the wind. Cannons were reloaded and aimed at an upward angle, with blocks and other objects jammed beneath them to lift them up. Crossbows were reloaded and casks of gunpowder made ready. When the first dragon soared toward them, Proudmoore drew his own sword and raised it high, then brought it down sharply.

"Attack!"

It was a valiant effort—but it failed miserably. The dragon dodged each cannonball, which then sank into the sea. It knocked the casks aside with its wings, and simply ignored the flaming crossbow bolts, which clattered harmlessly from its scales. The ferocity of the attack did make it pull back, however, giving Proudmoore time to ponder other methods.

Fortunately he was spared the need to come up with anything.

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.