A quick scan of the deck revealed the answer. Blackened wreckage marked the area where the barrel with the herb powder used to keep the beasts sedated had been kept secure. Rain by itself could not have touched the tarp-covered container tucked under the overhang of the door to the captain’s cabin, but lightning could have—and had. The entire area had been blasted, and with it the only certain way to keep their savage cargo docile.
The flagship’s own thumping slowed. A desperate notion occurred to Briln. He raced over to the hold entrance just as the first mate emerged. The other orc looked exhausted but triumphant.
“He was just wakin’! We caught him in time—”
The captain cut him off. “Who’s the best shot?”
The first mate grinned. “That’d be me, Captain! You know that!”
“We’ve got a good amount of the powder left! Can you shoot a couple of sacks over to her?” Briln gestured at the other ship. “They’ve lost all their supply!”
“Aye!”
Another roar echoed from the direction of the other ship. Briln brought up the spyglass.
The orcs with the torches were racing toward the hold. There, several mariners with lances prepared to descend.
The deck behind them erupted.
A gasp escaped Briln. He had seen no lightning. What could have—?
As the shattered planks settled, the answer revealed itself. The silhouette of a huge hand briefly rose above the ruined deck, then sank back down. As that happened, the ship rocked back and forth even more violently.
Some of the crew hurried to the hole. As that happened, Briln’s second returned.
“Two pouches!” the other orc shouted over the storm. “Where?”
“Somewhere on the deck where they’ll see them! Just hurry!”
“Aye!” The first mate bound one tiny sack to an arrow, then readied the latter for firing. Even in such a storm, a skilled orc archer could be certain of hitting his target more often than not.
But before Briln’s second could let loose, the other ship rocked even more wildly. Several of the crew, focused on the hole in the deck, suddenly went stumbling toward the rails. Two fell over, and one only saved himself by grabbing hold at the last moment.
The first mate shifted, trying to compensate. With the other orcs being flung this way and that, there was now more of a risk of shooting one of them.
The second ship tilted again, nearly falling sideways due to the additional impetus of another wave. As the vessel righted, the archer finally fired.
Briln let out a lusty roar. The arrow landed true, about a yard from the gaping hole. One of the crew noticed it and ran to retrieve the pouch. It was clear that he had a fairly good idea what the flagship had just sent over.
“Quick! The other!” the captain commanded. One pouch likely had more than enough powder to quiet the beast, but a second would guarantee success.
The first mate raised his bow—
The side of the hull facing the flagship shattered. A fearsome hoofed leg shot out, then pulled back in.
The rough sea turned the damaged ship, bringing the new gap to the water. The sea flooded into the fractured hold.
“Forget the powder!” Briln roared.
He needed to say no more. Abandoning the effort, the first mate rushed to give the order to heave toward the floundering vessel.
A wave briefly righted the ship, but its cargo, obviously growing more enraged, lashed out once more. Planks splintered as the hoof kicked again. The hole nearly doubled in size.
When the ship listed this time, there was no doubt of its imminent fate. With water rushing in, the Horde vessel quickly sank. Within moments, the deck was at sea level.
Orcs leapt for the churning water, trying to reach the flagship. Several were immediately swept under by the waves and did not resurface.
Wild roars escaped the hold. The gargantuan hands ripped away at what remained of the deck. Yet, for all the creature’s brute strength, he could not climb free in time.
The deck sank below the water. The sea shoved the ship farther from the rest of the fleet. One by one, the lanterns were doused, leaving only a silhouette of the ill-fated vessel.
A final frustrated roar cut over the storm. The silhouette changed as something seemed to erupt from the sinking ship’s deck.
Briln grasped hold of the rail, the rescue attempt for the moment erased from his thoughts as the fear of a new threat to his own ship occurred to him. He envisioned the titanic creature wending his way closer. . . .
But with one last huge bubble of escaping air, the floundering ship went completely under. The last plunge happened so swiftly that the beast had no opportunity to react.
The flagship drew near two of the survivors. Briln doubted more than a handful would make it, if even that many. He mourned their brave deaths . . . then considered what the night’s events might mean. He had lost a fifth of his precious cargo.
“Eight should do,” the captain muttered. “Eight should surely do. . . .”
But that was up to the warchief. That was up to Garrosh.
Briln hoped for no more losses. Surely, if there were no more losses, then Garrosh would forgive him for this failure.
But if the warchief did find fault with him, Briln asked only that the great orc leader let him see the crushing of the Alliance in Ashenvale.
That would make the captain’s own death worth it all. . . .
There is a change in us, Malfurion noted as he strode through Darnassus. And not one for the better. . . .
The archdruid knew exactly when this undesired shift in the mood of the night elves had happened, and what had caused it. Shalasyr. They cannot forget Shalasyr. . . .
Night elves were used to death in battle or by accident. What they were not used to was the loss of a life due to infirmity tied to aging. Tyrande had spoken with Jarod and through him learned the extent of Shalasyr’s troubles.
The illness had not been the only trouble, only the final straw. Jarod and his mate had been suffering from a number of minor but increasingly consistent aches and pains that sounded all too familiar to Malfurion, whose shoulder suffered twinges even now.
He eyed those nearest his path as he crossed the gardens. A dour atmosphere pervaded them. Malfurion could imagine their thoughts; each wondered not only if this was the fate awaiting them but also just how imminent it might be.
And he was no better than they were.
There was no escaping the inevitable, but through the use of the Sisterhood, Tyrande was already trying to stem the rising fear. She also looked to the examples of the younger races—the humans, especially—for how to handle the aging and sickness. True, the humans, too, suffered great emotional distress from both, but they also had a resilience that in most cases salvaged them. At the moment, neither the archdruid nor his mate was certain that their own race as a whole would prove as equal to the tests.
Malfurion forced the situation from his thoughts. He had to concentrate on the summit. Preparations had at last been finalized, and the arrivals of the representatives were close at hand. Malfurion now had to concern himself with the specifics of what he hoped would be accomplished.
“Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage . . .”
It was next to impossible to come upon the archdruid without his noticing, but the speaker had done just that. Fortunately, Malfurion was not one of tender nerve. He simply turned and, to no surprise, found himself gazing down slightly at a human.
The man was in the prime of life, strong of jaw, and with narrow eyes. He was clad in loose, simple brown garments. Despite being unarmed, he bore a stance that marked him as a fighter.
Malfurion knew him. “Eadrik.”
Eadrik bowed low, his long, brown-black hair falling forward. “My lord Genn Greymane hoped to have a word with you, if you’ve time this day.”