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.