Khadgar shook his head as the monarchs nodded and began moving toward the door. Perenolde was a wily one, that was certain. He had seen that his fellow rulers' support was swinging toward Lothar and had found a way to regroup. Khadgar suspected the Alterac king would announce after lunch that he had reconsidered and that clearly Lothar's idea had merit. That way he could avoid losing face or being forced into a junior position in the upcoming alliance, which it seemed the kings would likely agree upon soon.

As he followed the monarchs from the room, Khadgar noticed a movement above and off to one side. Turning he caught a brief glimpse of two heads peeking out from one of the upper balconies. One was dark—haired and solemn, and he recognized Prince Varian. Of course the Stormwind heir would want to know what took place in this meeting. The second head was fair—haired and younger, a mere boy, standing back far enough that Varian probably did not realize he had a shadow. The boy saw him looking and grinned before disappearing behind the balcony's back curtain. So, Khadgar thought to himself. Young Prince Arthas also wants to know what his father and the others are planning. And why not? All Lordaeron would be his one day—provided they could keep the Horde from overrunning it.

CHAPTER FOUR

Doomhammer was speaking with one of his lieutenants, Rend Blackhand of the Black Tooth Grin clan, when a scout came running up. Though the orc warrior clearly had news to import, he stopped several paces from them and waited, catching his breath, until Doomhammer glanced in his direction and nodded.

"Trolls!" the orc scout announced, still gasping. " Forest trolls, a full war party, by the looks of it!"

"Trolls?" Rend laughed. "What, are they attacking us? I'd thought they were smarter than ogres, not dumber!"

Doomhammer had to agree. The one time he had encountered forest trolls he had been impressed and a little disquieted by their cunning. Though the trolls were taller than orcs they were leaner and more agile, particularly in the forests, which made them a significant threat within such places. Crossing the waters to reach this island, however, did not match what he had seen of their behavior.

But the scout was shaking his head. "Not attacking. They're on the mainland and they've been captured." He grinned. "By humans."

That got Doomhammer's attention. "Where?" he demanded.

"Not far from the shore, along the hills just within the forests," the scout answered promptly. "They were marching west, though it was slow going for them."

"How many?"

"Close to forty humans," the scout replied. "Ten trolls."

Doomhammer nodded and turned back to Rend. "Gather your strongest warriors," he instructed. "And quickly. You leave at once." He glowered at the Black Tooth Grin leader. "Be clear, however," he warned, "that this is a raiding party only. You are to rescue the trolls and bring them back here with you. Avoid being seen as much as possible, and kill any who do spy you. I will not have our battle plans ruined because you were careless."

The chieftain nodded and departed without a word, moving quickly toward a warrior lounging nearby. Rend began barking orders even before he had reached the other orc, and the warrior quickly straightened, nodded, and ran off, no doubt seeking his fellows. Doomhammer waited impatiently, signaling the scout to wait as well. His hands flexed in anticipation but his mind was far away, back many months to his previous encounter with the trolls.

Blackhand had shocked the other orc clans, back on their homeworld, by declaring his intent to ally with the ogres. It had proven a useful partnership, the monstrous creatures lending considerable strength to their Horde, but it still went against the grain. Thus many had been skeptical when they had heard reports of similar creatures here on this new, lush world—and Blackhand had announced they would win these creatures to their war banner as well.

He had sent Doomhammer and a handful of other Blackrock warriors to make contact, a sign of the trust he placed in his young Second. Even now Doomhammer felt guilty about that, for he had betrayed his warchief's trust and turned on him, killing him and taking his place as leader. Still, it was the way of the clans, and Blackhand had been leading their people to their own death and destruction. Doomhammer had been forced to act in order to save them. He reached back and down, running his fingers along the smooth stone head of his hammer where it hung across his back, the handle high over his shoulder and the head down beside his thigh. Long ago shaman had prophesied that the mighty weapon would one day see the salvation of their people. They had also said, however, that the wielder who saved them would also doom them. And that he would be the last of the Doomhammer line. Doomhammer had wondered about that many times, and even more since he had become warchief and leader of the Horde. Had his taking control meant their people's salvation? He certainly felt that to be the case. But did that mean he was also destined to doom them afterward? And that his line would end with him? He hoped not.

At that time, however, Doomhammer had not been as concerned with such matters. He still trusted Blackhand, at least the orc leader's loyalty to their people and intent to see them masters of this world, and still followed the warchief's orders, though he did his best to moderate Blackhand's love of unnecessary violence. Not that Doomhammer shrank from combat, and as with most orc warriors he delighted in the exertions and the thrill of battle, but there were times when too much force could actually reduce the value of a victory. This mission, however, had involved communication rather than warfare, and Doomhammer had been intrigued and honored. And perhaps, deep down, even a little frightened. Thus far they had encountered only humans on this new world, and one or two of the diminutive but mighty creatures called dwarves. If this world had ogres, however, the Horde could find itself with a more powerful enemy than they had yet seen.

It took two weeks before Doomhammer finally encountered a troll. He and his warriors wandered through the forest where a scout had seen one, making no effort to conceal themselves. As the time passed they had become more convinced the scout had lied or simply been mistaken, jumping at shadows and then concocting a story to cover his own cowardice. Then one night, just as twilight stretched across the land and threw long shadows under the trees, a figure swung down from the branches high above, dropping silently to the ground just beyond the orcs' campfire. Another appeared an instant later, than another, until the orcs found themselves surrounded by six of the silent, shadowy figures.

At first Doomhammer thought the scout had been correct and they were facing ogres, though these were slightly smaller and moved with a silence and a grace he had never seen the behemoths possess before. But then a ray of fading sunlight struck one of the creatures as it stalked forward and Doomhammer saw that its skin was green, as green as his own, as green as the leaves on the trees. That explained why they had not noticed the creatures before—their coloration allowed them to blend into the foliage, especially if they moved through the branches as these evidently had. He also saw that the creature was taller than he was and leaner than an ogre, and more proportioned, lacking the overlong arms and oversized hands and massive head of those creatures. And the look the approaching figure gave him, firelight glinting in its dark eyes as it extended a spear to prod at Doomhammer, showed a certain intelligence as well.

"We are not your foes!" Doomhammer shouted, his cry splitting the quiet night. He batted the spear aside with one hand, noting as he did that the head was chipped stone and looked very sharp. "I seek your leader!"