Perenolde tried to nod but could not, and fell to his hands and knees instead. Then the pain was gone. He stood slowly, his limbs still trembling, and eyed the two powerful creatures before him, the dragon's burning gaze searing deep into his soul. Somehow that stare seemed less troubling than it had before. The pain had helped clear Perenolde's head and focus his mind. This could be an opportunity if he could just keep his wits about him.
"I have the book," he admitted. "Or rather, I had it stolen from Stormwind and I know where it is." He brushed absently at the wine stain on his sleeping clothes. "I thought I might need it as a bargaining chip. The Alliance has claimed my throne and my kingdom because I helped your kind in the last war." He studied the rider — a death knight, he thought, suddenly remembering the term. Yes, clearly he was a death knight, which meant he held some importance in the Horde.
Perenolde considered. "I will give you the book… for a favor." The rider did not speak, but something in his bearing indicated he was still listening. "The Alliance has stationed troops here in my kingdom, to watch me and to control me. Destroy them, and the book is yours."
For a second the rider did not move. Then he nodded. "Very well," he replied. "It shall be done. We will return afterward and you will tell us where to find the book." The death knight whispered something to the black dragon and it leaped skyward, his wings carrying him aloft. A rustling all around startled Perenolde, followed by the sight of several more dark shapes taking flight.
Perenolde stared as the black dragons flew from sight, and then he started to laugh. Could it be that simple? Trade an old spellbook — one he could not use himself — for his freedom and his kingdom's independence? He continued to laugh, aware of the manic quality the peals held.
"What's going on?" came a voice. Perenolde started, then realized it was his eldest son. "That… that was a dragon … and I think a death knight!" Aliden continued in a shocked tone. "What did you say to them? How did you convince them to leave?"
Perenolde laughed on, unable to stop himself. "Damn it. Father!" Aliden burst out, punching his father in the jaw hard enough to send the older man sprawling. "Two years I've spent trying to overcome the stigma you've cast on our family name. Two years!" Aliden glared down at his father, tears streaking his face. "You stupid, selfish bastard, you've ruined everything!"
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!"