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.