The Shattering Read online

  What was left of the Warsong offensive all scrambled for the small but lethal weapons. The pounding had not ceased all this time. The crates that had been piled up were being pushed ever forward, and the table that served as a door was starting to splinter before the onslaught. Cairne shifted his hooves and repositioned his back to keep up the support as the others loaded themselves down with grenades. Garrosh rose and nodded to Cairne.

  “One, two, three!” cried Cairne. On “three” Cairne and the orcs guarding the other two doors stepped back, Cairne dropping the table and the orcs swinging wide the doors. Garrosh was there, a massive battleaxe in each hand, screaming his father’s war cry and slashing at the false ghosts, all violence and death. Cairne stepped back, allowing the others to precede him in their race for the ship. They threw the grenades into the cluster of Kvaldir. There were several explosions, and then the path was clear—save of bodies. They had a few precious moments before the next wave of Kvaldir came.

  “Go, go!” he urged, turning back to where his spear lay. He quickly strapped it to his back. If he needed to fight in the next few minutes, all would be lost anyway. The real fight would have to take place on the ship. His hands free, he scooped up a badly injured orc as if the warrior weighed nothing at all, and began running as fast as he could toward the ship.

  Mannoroth’s Bones had been damaged and was under attack, but it looked still seaworthy, at least to Cairne’s eyes.

  He felt a tug of pain in his heart as a troll fell not four paces in front of him, an axe in his back. There would be time to honor the fallen later, but now there was nothing Cairne could do but leap over the body and keep running.

  His hooves sank in the sand. He felt slow, and not for the first time cursed what age had done to his body. There was a hideous cry, and one of the Kvaldir lunged at him, swinging his axe with both brawny arms. Cairne dodged as best he could, but he was not swift enough and grunted in pain as it sliced his side.

  And then at last he was there, delivering his charge into one of the small skiffs. It pushed off immediately, crammed to overflowing with wounded. Immediately it became a target, and Cairne had to stand in the small, rocking boat and fight off the Kvaldir while two orcs rowed furiously. At one point, he looked back at the shoreline, dotted with the corpses of “ghosts.”

  And the corpses of brave members of the Horde.

  But some of those “corpses” were still moving. Cairne narrowed his eyes and leaped out of the boat as it pulled up alongside Mannoroth’s Bones. He turned back, half-swimming, half-wading, slogging onto the shore toward the injured. Cairne intended to do everything he could to keep that number from increasing.

  Six times back and forth he went, bearing those who could not get themselves to safety. Garrosh’s group had exhausted their supply of grenades, and the shore was equal parts blood and sand now. The horrific, muddy concoction sucked at his hooves as he ran. He heard Garrosh’s war cry through it all, the sound heartening his warriors and even Cairne until at last all who could be rescued had been.

  “Garrosh!” shouted Cairne.

  Bleeding from half a dozen wounds, his breath ragged, Cairne looked about for Garrosh. He was over there, whirling his two axes, shouting incoherently as he severed limbs and was spattered with blood. So lost in the battle haze was he that he paid no attention to Cairne’s cries. The tauren hastened over to him and grabbed Garrosh’s arm. Startled, the orc whirled, axes raised, but halted the blow in time.

  “Retreat! We have the wounded! The battle is on the ship now!” Cairne shouted at him, shaking his arm.

  Garrosh nodded. “Retreat!” he cried, his voice carrying over the fray. “Retreat to the ship! We will continue to fight and slaughter our enemies on the water!”

  The few combatants left fighting turned at once and hastened to the shore, leaping into the boats even as they pushed off for Mannoroth’s Bones. A Kvaldir wrenched one hapless orc from inside the skiff and dragged her onto the shore, where he proceeded to hack her limb from limb. Cairne forced himself to shut out her cries, shoving the last boat off with all his strength and clambering into it.

  There were several of the giant humanoids on the ship already. Captain Tula was shouting to shove off, and her crew was scrambling to obey. The anchor was hauled up and the ship pushed off toward open water. The Kvaldir vessels, wreathed in the cold, clinging fog, pursued. The sight was less frightening now that everyone understood they faced a living foe, but the danger was still very real. The crew had held its own while the remnants of the Warsong offensive struggled to get to the ship, but now they were able to attend to their duties while the soldiers fought. The Kvaldir ships pulled up alongside, close enough for Cairne to see the leering, furious faces of the murderous enemy.

  “Do not let them board!” shouted Garrosh. He dispatched a foe and, leaping over the still-twitching corpse, chopped the hands off of a Kvaldir attempting to climb aboard. The Kvaldir screamed and fell into the freezing waters. “Tula! Push us out to sea! We must outrun them!”

  The frantic crew obeyed. Cairne, Garrosh, and the others fought like demons. Archers and gunmen fired at the enemy vessel. Several bowmen lit their arrows on fire, aiming for the sails. A great cheer went up as one of them caught. Bright orange flames pierced the cold gray of the fog, and the sail began to crackle as the fire spread. Mannoroth’s Bones lurched toward open water. Cairne fully expected the Kvaldir to follow, but they did not. He heard cries in their ugly language as some hastened to put out the fire that was consuming their ship while others rushed to the bow and hurled curses at the rapidly disappearing Horde vessel.

  Cairne suddenly felt the pain of his wounds and grimaced. He permitted himself to lie down in the boat and close his eyes for a moment. Let the pretend ghosts rail. Today, fewer than they expected have fallen to them.

  And for now, Cairne thought wearily, that was enough.

  THREE

  “I am saddened to depart this place,” Garrosh said as they stood on the deck of Mannoroth’s Bones a few hours into their journey.

  Cairne stared at him. “Saddened? I would think Northrend symbolized a place of carnage and loss. Many of our best and brightest were slain here. I have never been one to mourn leaving a battlefield.”

  Garrosh snorted. “It has been a long time since you were on a battlefield … elder.”

  Cairne’s brows drew together and he straightened, towering over even Garrosh. “For an elder, it seems my memory is sharper than yours, young one. What do you think the last few hours were? Do you disregard the sacrifices that your soldiers made? Do you sneer at the wounds I and others now bear because of it?”

  Garrosh muttered something and did not answer, but it was clear to the tauren that Garrosh did not regard a siege in the same light as a no doubt glorious battle on some open plain. Perhaps he thought there was some shame in being trapped in the first place. Cairne had seen too much to be so foolish, but the blood ran hot in the young orc. Garrosh would learn that it was in how one fought, not where or when, that honor was born. And by that standard, the Horde had given a proud accounting of itself.

  And so, he had to admit, had Garrosh. His reckless leaping into the fray had paid off—this time. But apparently, according to others he had talked with, even Saurfang, who clearly disliked the young orc, it had paid off a number of times before. Where did boldness become recklessness? Instinct become bloodlust? As he shivered a little in the sharp, biting wind blowing off the arctic seas despite his thick fur, his body stiffening up from its wounds and the exertion, Cairne was forced to admit that it had indeed been a while since he had fought with any regularity, though he had still been able to hold his own when he needed to.

  “The Horde won victory against all odds, against a terrible foe in Northrend,” said Garrosh, returning to the original subject of the conversation. “Each life counted toward that goal. Toward the honor and glory of the Horde. Saurfang’s own son was lost. He and the others shall have lok’vadnods composed and sung for them. On
e day, ancestors willing, I shall have one written for me as well. And that is why I am saddened to depart, Cairne Bloodhoof.”

  Cairne nodded his grizzled head. “Though I do not think you want a lok’vadnod terribly soon, hmm?”

  It was an attempt to interject levity, but Grom Hellscream’s boy was too earnest to chuckle along. “Whenever death comes, I will meet it proudly. Fighting for my people, a weapon in my hand, my battle cry on my lips.”

  “Hrmmm,” rumbled Cairne. “It is a glorious way to go. With honor and pride. May we each be granted such a dignity. But I have much more stargazing to do, more listening to drumming circles. More teaching the young ones and watching them come of age before I am willing to go with death on that final journey.”

  Garrosh opened his mouth to speak, but it was as if the wind snatched the words out of his tusked mouth. Cairne, massive and solid as he was, stumbled under the force of the gale that erupted out of nowhere. The ship lurched beneath them, tipping wildly to one side, and suddenly the deck was awash in water.

  “What is happening?” Garrosh bellowed, even that loud sound almost drowned out by the abrupt howling of the wind. Cairne did not know the proper seaman’s term for this type of storm and thought that identifying it was the least of their worries. Captain Tula rushed on deck, her blue skin pale and her eyes wide. Her functional clothing—black foot wraps, pants, and a plain white shirt—was drenched and plastered to her skin. Her black hair had come undone from its topknot and looked like a mop atop her head.

  “What can I do?” Cairne asked at once, unsettled more by her obvious concern than the storm that had quite literally seemed to come out of nowhere.

  “Get below so I won’t be havin’ t’ worry about you landlubbers!” she shouted, too focused to worry about rank and courtesies. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Cairne would have chuckled. As it was, he reached out, seized Garrosh unceremoniously by the back of his gorget, and had begun to steer the protesting orc toward the center of the ship when the wave crashed over them all.

  Cairne was slammed to the deck as if by a giant hand. The breath was knocked out of him, and even as he struggled, water surged into his lungs to take its place. As quickly as it had come, the wave receded, nearly taking both him and Garrosh with it as easily as if they were but twigs in a stream wending through Quel’Thalas. As one, they reached out to one another, hands gripping painfully hard. They slammed into the curving bulwark, their progress halted for the moment. Cairne rose, his hooves carving a deep gouge in the slippery wooden deck as he stubbornly sought purchase. Snorting and bellowing with the effort, he fought his way forward, hauling Garrosh until the orc could scramble upright. There came a sudden crack of lightning far, far too close and the shattering rumble of thunder almost immediately afterward.

  Still Cairne moved forward, one arm around Garrosh, the other reaching out until it grasped the slippery but solid doorframe, and the two half-stumbled, half-slid down into the hold.

  Garrosh vomited up water, then stubbornly reached out a brown hand and tried to rise. “Cowards and children stay in the hold while others risk their lives,” he gasped.

  Cairne placed a hand none too gently on Garrosh’s armor-clad shoulder. “And self-centered fools get in the way of those trying to save lives,” he growled. “Do not be a fool, Garrosh Hellscream. Captain Tula needs to tend the ship so that it won’t snap in two, not waste precious energy and time trying to stop us from being washed overboard!”

  Garrosh stared at him, then threw back his head and howled his frustration. But to his credit, he did not attempt to rush back up the stairs.

  Cairne braced himself for a long, bruising wait at best, a cold, wet death at worst. Instead, the storm abated as suddenly as it had come. They had not even caught their breath when the ship’s violent, rocking movements stilled. They stared at one another for a moment, then both turned and hastened up the stairs.

  Unbelievably the sun was already coming out from behind rapidly dissipating clouds. It was an incongruously cheerful sight compared to what greeted Cairne’s eyes as he emerged.

  Sunlight glinted on the calm, silver surface of an ocean littered with debris. Cairne glanced wildly around, counting ships as he saw them. He counted only three, and prayed to the ancestors that the remaining two ships were merely scattered, although the debris bobbing in the water was mute testimony to the fact that some of them, at least, had not made it.

  Survivors, clutching the floating crates, were crying out for aid, and both Cairne and Garrosh rushed to assist. This, at least, they could help with, and so spent the next hour bringing gasping, soaked orcs, trolls, and tauren—with the occasional sodden Forsaken or blood elf—aboard the ships that remained.

  Captain Tula was grim-faced and taciturn as she barked out orders. Mannoroth’s Bones had survived the—hurricane? Typhoon? Tsunami? Cairne wasn’t sure. Their ship was largely intact, and was now crowded to the gills with shivering survivors huddled in blankets. Cairne patted a young troll on the shoulder as he handed her a mug of hot soup, then moved to the captain.

  “What happened?” he asked quietly.

  “Cursed if I know,” was the reply. “I be on de ocean since I be a youngster. I be makin’ dis voyage dozens of times, resupplying Warsong Hold until dem Kvaldir stopped me. And I never be seein’ anyting like dat.”

  Cairne nodded solemnly. “I hope I do not offend if I say, I guessed as much. Do you think perhaps—”

  A howl of outrage that could only issue from the throat of a Hellscream interrupted him. Cairne whirled to see Garrosh pointing at the horizon. He was visibly shaking, but it was clear that it was with anger, not fear or cold.

  “Look there!” he cried. Cairne gazed where he pointed, but again, his aged eyes failed him. Not so Captain Tula’s. They widened.

  “They be flyin’ de flag of Stormwind,” she said.

  “Alliance? In our waters?” said Garrosh. “They are in clear violation of the treaty.”

  Garrosh referred to a treaty between the Horde and the Alliance, signed shortly after the fall of the Lich King. Both factions had been sorely damaged by the long battle, and both sides had agreed to a cessation of hostilities, including the struggles at Alterac Valley, Arathi Basin, and Warsong Gulch, for a brief time.

  “Are we still in Horde waters?” asked Cairne quietly. Tula nodded.

  Garrosh grinned. “Then by all laws, theirs and ours, they are ours for the taking! We are allowed by the treaty to defend our territory—including our waters!”

  Cairne couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Garrosh, we are not in any condition to be mounting an attack. Nor do they seem to be interested in us. Have you considered the possibility that the same storm that so damaged us blew them off course? That they are not here to attack, but are here only by accident?”

  “The winds of fate, then,” Garrosh said. “They should face their destiny with honor.”

  Cairne understood at once what was going on. Garrosh had a perfectly valid excuse for action, and he obviously intended to take it. He could not take revenge on the storm that had damaged Horde ships and taken the lives of many of his people, but he could vent his anger and frustration on the hapless Alliance vessel.

  To Cairne’s dismay even Captain Tula was nodding. “We be needin’ more supplies to replace what was lost,” she said, tapping her chin, her eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Then let us claim what is rightfully ours. Can Mannoroth’s Bones engage in battle?”

  “Aye, mon, dat she can, wit’ a little bit of preparation.”

  “I am sure you will find many hands eager to aid you,” Garrosh replied. Tula nodded and strode off, barking orders left and right. Garrosh’s statement had been correct. Everyone leaped to attention, desperately eager to do something, anything, rather than sit and bemoan their fate. Cairne understood and approved of the desire and need, but if his suspicion was correct and the crew of the Alliance vessel were simply innocent victims …

  The shi
p turned slowly, its sails swelling, and headed swiftly for the “enemy” ship. As they drew closer, Cairne could now see it more clearly and his heart sank.

  It made no effort to elude their obvious pursuit. It could not have, even if the captain had wished to. The vessel was listing badly to port. Its sails had been shredded by the vicious wind that had played slightly less cruelly with the Horde fleet, and it was taking on water. Cairne could only just make out what was on the ship’s standards—the lion’s head of Stormwind.

  Garrosh laughed. “Excellent,” he said. “Truly a gift. Another chance to show Varian how highly I regard him.”

  The last time Garrosh and King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind had been in the same room, they had come to blows. Cairne had no particular fondness for humans, but no true dislike of them, either. Had this ship attacked his own, he would have been the first to issue orders to return fire. But this ship was broken, sinking, and even without their “help” would likely soon vanish beneath the icy waters forever.

  “Vengeance is petty and beneath you, Garrosh,” Cairne snapped. “And what honor is there in slaying those about to drown? You may not violate the letter of the treaty, but you do its spirit.” He turned to Tula, hoping she would see reason. “I am the commander of this mission, Captain. As such, I outrank Garrosh. I order you to give aid to these victims of the storm. Their being here was not provocative, but accidental, and there is greater honor in aiding than in butchering.”

  She regarded him steadily. “With all due respect, mon, our warchief be appointin’ you leader only with regard to overseeing the return of the Warsong offensive veterans. Overlord Garrosh be in charge of all martial decisions.”

  Cairne’s jaw dropped as he stared at her. She was correct. The thought had not occurred to him when they had been fighting tooth and nail against the surprise onslaught of the Kvaldir. Then, he and Garrosh had been thinking completely as one. There was no question but that aggression and battle were utterly necessary, so they had not been in conflict over that, only over how best to defeat the enemy. But now, though he was in charge of the voyage to bring the troops home, they were still obliged to obey Garrosh until such time as Thrall formally relieved Garrosh of his command. There was nothing Cairne could do.