Hath studied him for a moment. "As you say, your Majesty," he stated finally. "I will obey." The others nodded as well.
Perenolde smiled. "Good. And as for the Alliance, I will accept any and all consequences personally." He turned back toward the map. "Now then, the Horde will come through here, here, and here," he said, indicating the southern passes on the map. He was annoyed to discover that his hand was shaking. "We have merely to leave these passes unmanned and the Horde will pass by without our ever encountering a single orc."
Hath was studying the locations. "They must be planning to strike Lordaeron from the north," he mused, tracing a line across the edge of the tapestry to where the city would lay if the image continued. "I would not have taken that approach myself, but then I don't have their numbers—or their arrogance." He turned back to Perenolde, his expression dubious. "The men may object, your Majesty," he stated coldly. "They may feel this is a betrayal of our oaths, or worse." His tone left little doubt that he agreed with them. "If they revolt, we will be unable to stop them."
Perenolde considered that. "Very well," he said after a moment. "Tell the soldiers that the Horde is planning to use only the three northernmost passes. If any ask how you acquired this information, hint that we had scouts and spies discover it at the cost of their own lives." He nodded, pleased with his own cleverness. "That should keep everyone occupied and safely out of the way."
Hath nodded brusquely. "I will station our men there at once, your Majesty," he promised crisply.
"That's fine." Perenolde favored the general with the warmest smile he could manage, to show that all was forgiven. "Now you'd best get them moving. We don't want to risk the orcs arriving while our troops are still moving into position."
The officers saluted and filed out of the map room—all except Hath.
"What is it, General?" Perenolde asked, not having to fake the weariness in his voice.
"There's been a messenger, sire," the general answered. "From the Alliance. He arrived while you were…resting." Hath gave a pointed glance at the cloak that lay tossed on a chair in the corner, his look saying clearly that he knew Perenolde had been outside the castle, and why. "He's waiting outside, sire."
"Show him in at once," Perenolde replied, striding over to the chair and scooping up his cloak. "Did you speak with him?"
"Only to ascertain who sent him," Hath assured him. "I knew you would want to hear his news first." The general was already at the map room door when he said this, and he beckoned to someone waiting outside. A young man in travel—stained leathers entered, looking down at the floor nervously.
"Your Majesty," the young man said, glancing up briefly and then away again. "I bring you greetings and a message from Lord Anduin Lothar, Commander of the Alliance."
Perenolde nodded and crossed to stand near the youth, tugging his cloak around him as he moved. "Thank you, General, that will be all for now," he told Hath, who looked relieved as he obediently left the room, shutting the door behind him. "Now, young man," Perenolde continued, turning back to the messenger, "what is this message you carry?"
"Lord Lothar says you are to bring your troops to Lordaeron," the young man replied nervously. "The Horde is likely to attack the city there, and your forces must aid in its defense."
"I see." Perenolde nodded, rubbing at his chin with the fingers of one hand. He reached out and laid the other arm across the youth's shoulder. "And does he expect you to report back on our progress?" he asked.
The messenger nodded.
"I see," Perenolde said again. "That is a shame." He turned toward the youth, his arm tightening to tug him closer, and stabbed with the dagger in his other hand. The blade passed up below the ribs and into the young man's heart, and he jerked, blood spilling from his mouth, before collapsing. Perenolde caught him before he could hit the floor, and eased him down.
"It would have been far better if the message had been a written one," Perenolde said softly to the corpse, wiping his dagger on the body before resheathing it. Then he dragged the body across the room and to the garderobe in the corner, tipping it in and listening to the dull thuds as it bumped the walls on the way down. As an afterthought he removed his cloak, now blood—spattered beyond any hope of cleaning, and tossed it in as well. A shame—he'd quite liked the embroidery.
After waiting a minute, Perenolde closed the curtain over the garderobe and walked back across the room. If Hath was waiting outside he would tell the general that the messenger had needed to leave so urgently he had allowed the use of his private exit. Otherwise he would simply tell Hath next time they met that the young man had returned to the Alliance. And of course his message had been simply to hold fast against the Horde. Perenolde smiled. He could all but guarantee that no orc would force its way past their defenses. The other mountain paths were another matter entirely.
Bradok clutched to the reins but not out of fear. He had forgotten all that the first time his dragon had taken wing, carrying him high into the sky. It was amazing, soaring among the clouds, and Bradok, who had always been a dutiful warrior but never more than content, had suddenly discovered true happiness. He was meant for this, meant to sail the skies, his massive red dragon beating its wings, the wind rushing through the crest of his hair. He still remembered the thrill of seeing flames spew from his dragon's mouth, and watching the trees burst from the sudden heat that incinerated them as soon as it touched them.
Glancing down, Bradok saw a stretch of silver amid the greens and browns of this rich world. That was the sea, he knew, the same one they had crossed after sacking that other kingdom not long ago.
Tapping his dragon with his heels, Bradok urged his mount lower and the dragon responded, furling its wings and diving down in a steep, exhilarating rush. The sea swelled in Bradok's vision, stretching almost to the horizon, and now he could see the dark shapes strung out where the sea met the shore. Those would be their ships, the ones that had carried the Horde from the other continent to this one. Bradok hated ships. He wasn't overly fond of water, either. But the air, that was a wonderful thing.
Pulling his dragon out of the dive, Bradok coasted over the ships, seeing the poor orcs seated in the benches all down their lengths, pulling on the long oars that kept the boat moving. An ogre stood near the center of each ship, beating time on a massive drum, and the orcs pulled in time, their steady strokes sending the dark ships sliding back into the water.
Bradok paused abruptly, and wheeled his dragon around for a second look. Yes, he had been right the first time. The ships were leaving the shore and returning to the sea. But they were supposed to be sitting idle, in case the Horde needed them again. Why were they moving now?
Glancing around, Bradok spied a familiar figure on the lead boat. It was Gul'dan, the warlock. Bradok had feared him, as did most of the orcs, but not anymore. He was a dragon rider now. What could he possibly have to be afraid of?
Angling his dragon around, Bradok swooped toward the lead ship. Gul'dan turned toward him as he approached.
"Why are you taking the boats?" Bradok shouted, waving his free arm while his dragon kept pace with the ship. The warlock looked puzzled, and held up both hands in confusion. Bradok coaxed his dragon closer. "You need to turn the boats around! The Horde is in Lordaeron, not across the sea!" he shouted again. Still Gul'dan gestured that he could not hear him. This time Bradok managed to bring his dragon almost on top of the ship, so he was barely ten feet from the warlock. "I said—" Suddenly Gul'dan's hand shot forward, a green ray lancing from it to Bradok's chest. He felt a burst of intense pain, and sensed his lungs tighten and his heart falter, then gasped as both stopped working altogether. The world turned dark with a rush, and Bradok toppled from his saddle, narrowly missing the ship and plummeting toward the waves. His last thought was that at least he'd had a chance to fly.