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. One 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 ship 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.

Quietly, for Garrosh’s ears alone, he said, “I ask you, please. Do not do this thing. Our enemy is already broken. If we do not choose to assist them, they will likely die here anyway.”

“Then a swift kill is a mercy,” was Garrosh’s reply. And as if to punctuate the statement, the roar of cannons echoed. Cairne was staring straight at the ill-fated Alliance ship as the cannonballs punched holes in its side. From other vessels, a rain of arrows descended, and the sound that no Alliance soldier would ever forget, the sound of the Horde in full battle cry, rose up over the sound of waves and wind.

“Again!” Garrosh yelled, racing forward to the bow, quivering like an eager wolf on the hunt as they drew yet closer to the ship.

The mast was now broken on the Alliance vessel, but Cairne could make out a figure on the deck frantically waving the white flag of surrender. If Garrosh noticed it, he gave no sign. As soon as Mannoroth’s Bones was close enough, he let out a howl and leaped to the enemy vessel, a weapon in each hand, and began to attack the humans.

Cairne turned away, sickened. Legally Garrosh was right, but by any other reckoning, morally or spiritually, what he was doing was wrong. Horribly wrong, and Cairne darkly wondered how the spirits would exact their revenge upon the Horde, or Garrosh, or perhaps even him, Cairne Bloodhoof, for standing by and permitting it to happen.

It was over quickly, too quickly, as far as the orcs were concerned. Garrosh, somewhat to Cairne’s surprise, actually shouted to his troops to “Hold!” after only a few moments. The tauren pricked his long ears up and moved close, straining to see and hear what Garrosh would do next.

“Bring me the captain!” Garrosh demanded. A short while later, a troll, holding a human male tightly by both arms, hurried over and tossed the hapless captain to the deck.

Garrosh prodded the figure with a foot. “You are in Horde waters, Alliance dog.”

The man, sinewy, tall for his race, and tanned, with short-cropped black hair and a neatly trimmed beard, simply stared up at the orc. “There is a treaty—”

“Which does not apply to incursions into our territory. That is obviously an act of aggression!”

“You saw what shape we were in,” the captain replied, disbelief in his voice. “A rabbit wouldn’t have found us aggressive!”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Garrosh kicked him in the ribs. Cairne could hear one or two of them break. The man grunted and his face went pale, then flushed.

“You are in Horde waters,” Garrosh repeated. “Whatever state your ship was in, I am well within my rights for everything I do here. Do you know who I am?”

The man shook his head.

“I am Garrosh Hellscream, son of the great Horde hero Grom Hellscream!” The captain’s eyes widened, and he paled again. Clearly he did indeed recognize the name—if not the first, then surely the surname. Grom Hellscream was legend in the Alliance as well as the Horde.

“I have defeated my enemies and claimed your vessel for the Horde, and you as prisoners of war. The question is, what should I do with you now? I could set fire to your ship and let you burn,” he mused, rubbing his chin. “Or simply leave. It has not escaped my notice that you have no skiffs. There are sharks and orcas in these waters, and I am certain they love the taste of Alliance flesh almost as much as my troll warriors do.”

The captain swallowed hard, no doubt keenly aware that it was a troll who had brought him before Garrosh and was now standing beside him. The troll cackled and licked his lips exaggeratedly. Cairne and Garrosh both knew the Darkspear trolls were not cannibals, but clearly the captain didn’t.

“My friend Cairne Bloodhoof there,” Garrosh continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder without turning to actually look at Cairne, “urged me to be merciful. And do you know, I think he might be right.”

The captain’s eyes darted to Cairne. The old bull was certain that he himself looked almost as surprised as the human. What was Garrosh doing? He had swarmed the ship, along with his men, slaying all but a handful of the crew. And he was talking about mercy?

“Today, Captain, I have shown you the mighty arm of the Horde, and I also show you its mercy. There are eleven of you who seem to have survived the … storm.” He smiled a little. “We will give you two skiffs, along with some of our own precious rations. That, and luck, should be enough to see you to safety. And when you reach home, tell them what has happened here. Tell them that Garrosh Hellscream was both death and life to you and your people today.”

Without another word, he turned and gracefully leaped back onto the deck of Mannoroth’s Bones. He spoke quickly and quietly to Tula, who nodded and issued orders of her own. Cairne watched as a few supplies and a single water keg were brought forth from below and two small skiffs were cut loose. At least Garrosh was keeping to his bizarre bargain. The tauren watched with mournful eyes as the humans scrambled into the boats and began to row back in the direction of Northrend.

He shifted his gaze to Garrosh, who stood straight and tall, his arms folded, still in his armor this entire time despite the storm and near-drowning.

Garrosh was a brilliant tactician, a fierce warrior, and loved by those he led.

He also held grudges, was a hothead, and needed to learn the lessons of both respect and compassion.

Cairne would speak with Thrall immediately upon their return. What Garrosh was had served the Horde well in Northrend, at a time of struggle unlike any they had ever known. Cairne knew it would serve the son of Grom poorly upon their return to Orgrimmar. Those who lived entirely by the sword sometimes did not know what to do in the aftermath of war. Out of their element, unable to channel their passions and energies the way they knew best—sometimes they ended up as belated casualties of the same war that had claimed the lives of their fellows, dying in taverns or in street fights instead of in battle, or simply becoming lost souls who continued to exist without truly living.

Garrosh had too much potential, too much to offer, to end up that way. Cairne would do all he could to prevent such a fate from befalling the son of Grom Hellscream.

But Garrosh would have to be a willing partner in such an endeavor for it to succeed. As he regarded the orc now, standing so certain in his rightness, Cairne was not at all certain that Garrosh would be such a participant in shaping his own destiny.

He looked back at the slowly retreating skiffs. At least Garrosh had spared some lives, although Cairne had a sneaking suspicion it was rooted in arrogance. Garrosh very much wanted words of his deeds to reach Varian, to no doubt further irritate that leader.

Cairne sighed deeply, and turned his face up to the sun, weak in these northern climes but still present, closed his pale green eyes, and prayed for guidance.

And patience. A very great deal of patience.