Perenolde shook his head and rose to his feet, but froze mid-motion as he heard a new sound over his son's recriminations. What was that? It sounded like — yes, like a ballista releasing its payload, the rush through the air and the sudden release of the cargo, then the dull whump of the impact. He heard it again, and again, and realized the sounds were coming from over the rise, on the far side of the city. Near the bar­racks the Alliance forces had commandeered. He knew then what the sounds must mean, and began laughing again.

The dragons had begun their attack.

Aliden stared at him, then toward the sounds, then back at him again, comprehension and horror slowly washing across his face. "What have you done to us, Fa­ther?" he demanded. "What have you done?"

But Perenolde could not control himself enough to answer. Instead he slumped to the ground and sat there in a heap, shaking with mixed chortles and sobs, as he listened to the sounds of death and destruction. He had never heard anything so lovely in all his life.

“Over there." Sabellian circled, then settled gracefully onto the ground. "Boats."

"Boats?" Tagar had asked when Ragnok had ex­plained the plan, clinging to the great black dragon's neck as they flew through the night. "1 thought the dragons were flying us to this island."

But the death knight had shaken his cowled head. "It is too far for them to fly directly," he had explained. "They'll take us to Menethil Harbor, and we will obtain boats there to complete the journey."

Fenris had frowned. "Menethil… that is the name of a line of kings of this world," he had said quietly.

"Yes … it is an Alliance outpost," Ragnok had ad­mitted. "But it is the closest port to the island."

Fenris had disliked the idea, but he supposed it could not be helped. The dragons had set them down on a stretch of hilly land close to the harbor, separated from it by a small body of water. Fenris slipped off the dragon and gazed over the dark inlet speculatively. It looked quiet, but there were lights here and there. The harbor likely would be guarded. He motioned to his warriors, pointed at the harbor, and lifted a finger to his lips. As silently as he could, Fenris slipped into the water and began to swim as the dragons, their task dis­charged, took to the skies. The dragons had flown as close as they dared; even those in a little town, deep in slumber, would be roused by several dragons landing right next to them.

Most of the orcs were not armored and swam quickly, but those who had bits and pieces of plate, mail, or leather armor had a harder time of it. The orcs emerged dripping and chilled. Fenris glanced at them. Their green faces loomed pale in what light there was, and he frowned. He scooped up a handful of dirt and began to smear it on his face.

"Coat yourself with mud," he instructed both Tagar and the other orcs as quietly as possible. "We will need to move quickly, quietly, and without being seen." The rest of them complied. Fenris felt a quick stab of wistful memory as he watched the faces of his companions turn brown. Once, his skin had been this color; once, all orcs had been a wholesome earth- or tree-bark brown. Had things been so bad then? Had what they'd gained since that time been worth losing their world for? Sometimes, he wondered.

He shook off the melancholy and focused his atten­tion on his companions, nodding as he saw they were all just brown blurs in the darkness. "We only need a few boats. We'll take those three there, closest to the water's edge. Move quickly, and kill anyone who gets in your way." He glared at Tagar. “And only those in the way. Tagar, keep your warriors in line. Silent kills only — we don't want anyone to sound the alarm."

"Let them!" Tagar blustered. "We will strew the water with their bones!"

"No!" Fenris's sharp hiss cut him off. "Remember what Gorefiend said! We get in and get out, that's it!"

Tagar grumbled, but Fenris glared at him until the Bonechewer chieftain nodded.

"Good." Fenris gripped his axe, a narrow-bladed af­fair with a short haft and wicked edges. "Let's go."

They crept forward, moving silently across the moist earth, weapons at the ready. The first orcs had just reached the wooden piers when a dwarf walked past, clearly on patrol. He had not seen them yet, but he would any second, and Fenris nodded to the two war­riors in front. One of them darted forward, grabbed the dwarf's head, and yanked his axe across the dwarf's ex­posed neck, severing his head completely. The body dropped with only a soft thud, the head rolling a short distance away, its expression revealing just the begin­nings of surprise.

They advanced upon the boats Fenris had selected. Another guard approached, this one human, and one of Tagar's warriors dropped him with a single crushing blow to the head. Fenris nodded his approval. He'd been worried about the Bonechewer orсs, but perhaps they were not as savage and undisciplined as he had always thought. He moved on, then heard a strange crunching sound — and a short, breathy wail. Fenris whirled around. The orc was still crouched over his recent victim, and he was making the crunching sound — but not the wailing. Then, even as Fenris realized what the Bonechewer was doing, the wailing drew out and became words.

"Ah!" the guard cried, shrieking in pain. "My legs! It's eating my legs!"

A cry went up and lights were lit in buildings. Hu­mans and dwarves poured forth from seemingly nowhere, and Fenris realized they weren't going to be able to escape without a fight. He attacked fiercely, hoping to end it quickly. His orcs rallied around him, and soon cleared the immediate area of humans. But Fenris knew the docks would be overrun before long.

"To the boats!" he shouted, raising his axe high. They clambered into the three boats, one Bonechewer drop­ping his victim's remains back on the pier, hacked free the anchor lines, and cast off. It was clumsy, but the orcs managed to get all three boats pushed away from the docks and out into the bay beyond. Even as they left the harbor behind, however, a beacon fire flared to light.

"This is Baradin Bay," Ragnok said, "and the fleet of Kul Tiras patrols it regularly. They will see the beacon and be here within minutes."

"Then we should be gone before they arrive," Fenris replied grimly. He pulled a pair of oars from the long case set between the benches lining the boat and tossed them to the nearest warrior. "Row!" he shouted, grab­bing more oars and distributing them as well. "Row with all your might!" The other boats followed his lead, and soon they were skimming across the water, their powerful arms lending the boats speed.

But it was not enough, Fenris realized as he saw other, larger boats racing toward them. "Kul Tiras naval vessels!" Ragnok confirmed, studying their out­lines. “Admiral Proudmoore hates orсs — he will stop at nothing to destroy us!"

"Can we fight them?" Fenris asked, but he knew the answer even before the death knight shook his head.

"They are trained for ship-to-ship battle. And they can outrun us as well. We do not stand a chance!"

Fenris glanced up at the star-pocked sky and nodded. "Perhaps we don't. But then again, perhaps we do. Keep rowing!"

Their boats moved quickly, but as Ragnok had pre­dicted, their pursuit was faster. The human boats drew closer, until Fenris could make out the grim men clad all in green who stood ready at the taller ships' railings. Many of them had bows ready, while others had short swords and axes and spears in hand. He knew his war­riors could defeat a larger number of humans if they were on land, but here at sea they were at a serious dis­advantage.

Fortunately, they had not come alone.

Just as the first human boat came close enough for Fenris to make out the men's faces, a dark shape dropped out of the sky between them. Massive wings flapped hard enough to drive the boat back and knock the men off their feet. Then the dragon's jaws opened wide and fire shot forth, engulfing the ship's prow. The tar-coated wood caught at once, and soon the entire boat was alight. The sounds of screaming and crack­ling fire lifted Fenris s heart.