Gul'dan waited until the last marching orc had vanished from view. Then he turned to Cho'gall. "Are we ready?"
Both of the Twilight's Hammer chieftain's heads grinned. "Ready," he replied.
Gul'dan nodded. "Good. Tell your warriors we march at once. It is a long way back to Southshore." He rubbed at his beard. "Zuluhed is occupied with that elven city, and will not even notice we have gone until it is too late."
"What if he sends his dragons after us?" Cho'gall asked, his normal disregard for danger faltering at the thought of those massive creatures hurtling down upon them.
"He will not," Gul'dan assured the ogre. "He would not dare do so without Doomhammer's orders, and that means first sending a messenger after the rest of the Horde and then waiting for a reply. We will be well beyond his reach by then, and Doomhammer will not be able to spare any of his remaining troops to come after us, not if he wants to take that human city." He laughed. For weeks he had been trying to think of a way to break free of Doomhammer and pursue his own agenda, and the Warchief had actually handed him the perfect solution! He had half—expected Doomhammer to insist he accompany the rest of the Horde on the march, but the elves' resistance had provided him with the perfect excuse to remain behind.
"I will see to the warriors," Cho'gall promised, and turned away, already bellowing orders. Gul'dan nodded and moved off to gather his own gear. He was looking forward to this march. Each step would take him farther from Doomhammer and his careful scrutiny, and bring him closer to his destiny.
Doomhammer crept down the narrow trail that cut into the mountain peak, heading toward the small valley below. It was night and the rest of the Horde was sleeping, but he had urgent business to attend. He moved silently, his boots finding solid purchase on the well—worn rock, one hand holding his hammer so that it did not bounce across his back and glance against the rock walls, the other in front of him to help him feel his way down the path. The moon was half—full overhead, providing him ample light, and he could hear the chirping of some insect nearby. Otherwise the mountains were silent.
He had nearly reached the valley when he heard different noises. The sound of someone—or something—roughly orc—sized moving clumsily toward the valley from the far side. Doomhammer crouched down, using the sides of the trail for cover, and tugged his hammer from his shoulder, holding it before him. He peered out cautiously, waiting as the sounds grew louder. Then he saw movement off to one side and watched as a cloaked figure pulled itself up the last incline and stepped into the valley.
It was not much of a valley, more of a nook, perhaps twenty feet wide and fifteen feet deep, but the rocks rose on every side, providing it with both some shelter and decent concealment. Presumably that was the reason it had been selected.
As Doomhammer watched unmoving the figure leaned against one of the rocks, gasping for breath, then straightened and looked around. "Hello?" the cloaked man called softly.
"I am here," Doomhammer replied, straightening and stepping between the rocks to leave the trail and enter the valley himself. The stranger straightened and gave a small gasp as he approached. Doomhammer could see a longsword at the man's side, well—made and unblemished, and knew this stranger had never used it. Why did he repeatedly find himself dealing with cowards and weaklings and schemers? he wondered. Why not warriors, who were far more direct in their desires and blunt about their intended methods? He had seen the man leading the Alliance armies at Quel'Thalas, and a different man leading them in the Hillsbrad, and had been impressed by both. They would be fighters, following a code of honor and respecting strength and honesty. But of course such men never would have requested a meeting such as this one.
"Y—you are Lord Doomhammer?" the man stammered, shrinking back from him slightly. "You speak Common?"
"I am Orgrim Doomhammer, chieftain of the Blackrock clan and warchief of the Horde and I know your tongue," Doomhammer confirmed. "And you, human? You sent me that message?"
"I am," the man replied, tugging at his hood as if to make sure it still concealed his face. It was of fine cloth, Doomhammer saw, and richly embroidered along the hems. "I thought it might be best if we met before any…unpleasantness occurred." He spoke slowly, as if to a child.
"Very well." Doomhammer glanced around, making sure the human had not brought assassins, but if so he was unable to scent or hear them. He had to take the risk that this human really had come alone, as his strange message had claimed.
"I had not expected a human to contact me," Doomhammer admitted quietly, crouching so he could study the man more easily. "Especially in such a manner. Is that how you humans communicate? By use of trained birds?"
"It is one method, yes," the man replied. "I knew none of my people would be able to get close enough to convey a message to you and was not sure how else to reach you, so I sent the bird. Did you kill it?"
Doomhammer nodded, unable to hold back the grin that crossed his face. The man started and broke into a sweat at the sight. "We did not realize it was a messenger until we found the parchment tied to its leg. By then it was too late. I hope you did not want it back."
His companion waved the apology aside with one slender gloved hand. His hand shook but his voice was almost steady. "It was only a bird," he pointed out. "I am more interested in preventing a much larger number of regrettable deaths."
Doomhammer nodded. "So your message said. What do you want from me?"
"Assurances," the man replied.
"Of what sort?"
"I want your word, as a warrior and a leader, that you will keep your warriors in check," the man answered. "No killing, raiding, razing, or other atrocities here in the mountains. Leave our cities and villages intact and do not hound or hunt our people."
Doomhammer considered this, idly rubbing his hammer's head with one hand. "And what do we gain in return?"
Now the man smiled, a cold expression meant no doubt to be friendly but seeming only conniving. "Free passage," he answered slowly, letting the two words hang in the still night air.
"Oh?" Doomhammer tilted his head, indicating that the man should continue.
"You and your warriors seek to cross the mountains and invade Lordaeron," the man pointed out. "These peaks are treacherous, and it is easy for those who know them to combat much larger forces. Your Horde might still win through, but only with heavy losses. And then you would be weakened in your battle against Lordaeron and its defenders." He smiled again and leaned back against the rock, clearly pleased with his reading of the situation, and his ability to alter it. "I can make sure this region's defenders stay clear of your army," he said confidently. "I will even show you which paths to take to cross the distance more rapidly. Your Horde can pass through the mountains quickly and unopposed."