An inordinate amount of dust floated up above the trees, obscuring the early morning sunrise in Stormheim. Pebbles vibrated and leapt from the ground, and sand was kicked up, all heralding their approach. Two dozen strong, they tore straight down the trodden path, making no attempt to conceal their presence. Not yet, at least.
Hooves and paws thumped and thundered as they traveled without rest for half the daylight hours, pushing themselves and their mounts to the brink of their stamina in a test of their mettle after the months of inaction since the fall of the Burning Throne. War pigs, kodos, and a single dire wolf scared off every living thing in their path, making no secret that they were no longer on a simple reconnaissance mission.
Forming into a narrow isosceles triangle, they pierced into the woodlands of the far eastern coast of the region, leaving any thoughts of Runewood behind them. Gradually, the beaten path became more even and refined, more cleanly cut tree stumps appeared, and the occasional fence post lined the road (and was subsequently trampled by the kodos). Only past noon did they catch sight of the first watchtower. Relatively new but not built to withstand a full on attack, the fortification seemed to be more for observation than defense. Only a handful of people were visible below it, and the tower itself was empty. An Alliance ballista on the ground was, thankfully, not armed.
Gutteral rode out in front of the group, leaving his sword sheathed but riding high and making a show of the fact that he felt no need to hide his squadron. As he slowed down, so did his troops on the heavier riding animals, and he was able to get a good look at the three Gilnean humans standing in the middle of the road.
Kicking up a bit more dust, he pulled his dire wolf to a halt right in front of them, leaving his troops to stop behind him. Over the tops of the trees, he could already see smoke rising from what must be his destination, but he went through the motions anyway.
While looking over the well-equipped but inexperienced Gilnean footmen, Gutteral spoke back toward his troops. "Sprig," he called back.
"Coming, boss!" one of the goblins replied while leaping from his perch on a kodo's tail. The little green man hurried on foot to Gutteral and saluted. "Ready!"
Gutteral continued looking over the waiting humans even as he leaned down. "I'll speak to you in Orcish; you pretend to translate into Common. Don't let them know that I understand."
"Got it boss."
One of the Gilneans folded his arms over his chest impatiently, causing the other two to instinctively lean back and let their more foolhardy comrade take the lead. He was older, but not by much, and wore unblemished armor which spoke of a creature who hadn't truly been tested previously. If only he knew how hard the raider in front of him was trying to show mercy.
"Greet him."
"My chief conveys his cordial greetings to you!" Spring exclaimed in Common.
"Tone it down."
"Greetings," Sprig said correctively.
"Yeah, like that."
The Gilnean footman looked past them to the amassed soldiers. "Your people have quite the understanding of cordial," he said in a petulant tone.
"Pretend to be translating that," Gutteral whispered.
"Alright, they shouldn't be able to hear us in human form. Their ears are small."
"Good. Ask them if that's the place, where the smoke is rising."
"My chief asks if that smoke over the horizon is rising from a place called Greywatch," Sprig asked in Common.
The two less bold Gilneans balked at the question, though the one in the center proved to be less clever. "That place, and all the land between it and this tower, is the territory of the Alliance. I've not been informed of any diplomatic visits."
"He thinks he's playing hardball," Sprig whispered in Orcish.
"Cute. Tell him that I'm sorry, but this isn't what he's hoping for."
"My chief conveys his apologies, but this isn't an act of diplomacy."
"Tell them that we came to settle a score."
"He's come here for a redress of grievances."
"There are proper channels for that," the macho footman said. "And they don't run through here. Tell your chieftain that I'm sorry, but he's in the wrong place."
"Let's ice this chump, boss!" Sprig whispered in Orcish.
"We don't know if he's guilty, and Koleg hid when her friends were taken, so she can't identify them anyway. We're here for justice, not revenge."
Pompous but smart enough not to show off in front of the others, Sprig climbed up the side of Gutteral's wolf. "You told me they're the same when we were hammered last week, boss," the little man whispered.
"Sprig, not while we're negotiating!" Gutteral growled in a low voice.
"My bad, my bad."
"Are we done here?" the irritatingly courageous Gilnean asked.
"Just one minute," Sprig said in Common. "I don't think we'll get anything useful out of them, boss," he whispered in Orcish.
"Give them the chance to step aside. They don't have any griffins or horses, so we don't need to worry about them."
"My chief has graciously offered you kind fellows the opportunity to stand down," Sprig explained to the humans cheerily.
"Is that so?" the upstart in the center asked petulantly.
"Glad tidings to you! For all you must do is return to your posts and enjoy your day. We shall vouch that you were all out answering the call of nature when we passed through."
As if trying to build tension, the human in the center folded his arms more tightly until the leather grips of his gauntlets stretched. Most of the troops were busy resting and petting their mounts, and one of them was scratching himself, which was about as close as any of them came to caring.
Failing to garner any reaction, the upstart tried to turn up the tension a notch. "Over my dead-"
In one swift motion, Gutteral reached up, unsheathed his sword, and swung downward. Sprig hit the dirt and the two other humans leapt back and grabbed their swords, but their foolish comrade had already made the mistake of trying to dash forward. Gutteral had already re-sheathed his sword by the time the idiot's head had toppled to the ground.
Gutteral just stared at the two survivors for a moment; they thought twice and laid down their arms. Sprig dusted his leather jerkin off and got back up smiling.
"We never saw you," said one of the two Gilneans while they both walked away.
"Pleased to not make your acquaintance!" Sprig said in Common. "Fuckwit," he muttered in Orcish.
Gutteral shook his head in disapproval as the goblin returned to ride the kodo. "Lay off them, those two got the point." He looked back at the others. They didn't know him like Sprig did, or know that Sprig knew him like that, and didn't want them to think they could all speak out of line too. "Move!" he bellowed, jolting them all awake again.
For just over an hour, they rode in silence toward Greywatch. The path became more even, more artificial, less earthen, and the amount of grass decreased. The road was sandier near the fort itself, and a dust cloud began to form around them. Before they even came into clear view of the town's watchers, they could hear the commotion they'd caused among the guards.
In a denser thicket near the end of their journey, Gutteral halted the troops again. Soft underbrush patted them all as they huddled into a circle, and the light breeze above them could no longer be felt. He turned back to address his whole squadron.
"I want to see all of our waterskins on the ground in two groups: half here and half there," he said while dismounting, and the others did as well. "Half goes to our mounts, along with half of our food; I don't want to see anybody touch the other half until this is over."
When he didn't continue, they got the picture and then got to work, including Koleg whom he'd instructed to earn her keep while under their care. The sole figure not working hobbled toward him, leaning on a profane staff as she approached. He waited patiently at the edge of the thicket, waiting for her to join him while he watched his troops get to work.
The weathered warlock, an ex-necrolyte and reformed member of the Shadow Council, stopped her incessant chanting of mantras and looked up at him with milky eyes. "I see their essences beyond their walls," Nolash rasped. "They're not afraid."
"Good. Let them relax and deal with us evenly."
"They won't. They neither fear nor love us, so they don't respect us."
Her words, and the fact that she was most often right, latched onto his fear again. Not fear of the denizens of the fort, but of his own faction when news of what he might have to do reached Orgrimmar. He shook his head and hoped she'd be wrong for once.
"When we brought down Sargeras, I watched retainers for the Houses of Greymane and Wrynn walk next to us as we left Antorus. I will never forget what the Alliance did to my people, but we can't let that influence how we act now. I have to try to negotiate with them first...we have to try."
As frustrating as she could also be motherly and supportive, Nolash shook her head and walked away. "You will fail," the mature Shadowmoon orc said before plopping down under a bush and pulling her hood over her head.
He believed her...but he couldn't let the troops believe her. When he was sure that she was content to stew under the mulberries, he waved over Ola, Zyrdax, and Ukasha, the latter being one of the smallest Tauren under his command but also the meanest-looking. He didn't want to give away their numbers or position and couldn't bring too many followers, so he'd need the few and the best among his troops for the intimidation factor.
"Zyrdax, you maintain order here while we're gone."
"You're going in alone?" his cousin asked incredulously.
"No, we're not going in; we're going to try to reason with them."
Zyrdax didn't display any outward reaction, but the way he remained quiet for a few seconds spoke volumes. "Farewell," he said after a moment, though the way Gutteral glared at him caused him to hurry off to his duty.
Ukasha didn't like to talk, which was preferable, though Ola was even more likely than Sprig to question him. She kept glancing at him as the three of them left the thicket, and he knew he wouldn't be able to dodge the subject for long.
"You're sure about this?" she asked as they walked toward the front wall of the Alliance fort.
"Yes," he replied. He needed her to believe it. "We put the proof on them; if they reject our overtures, then the blame is on them."
She finally stopped looking at him and focused on the edge of the woods at the road. "Okay," she replied. She only ever said that when she meant it, yet the persuasion seemed too easy.
He shook his head as the walls of Greywatch came into view. He had to focus on the task at hand.
Two dwarven riflemen stood atop the wall of the fort, which straddled two mountain ridges; it figured since those people had a habit of digging themselves in. Only two, however, was an odd sign. It was a small number for a fort which once houses Greymane himself. The main gate seemed unimpressively small the closer they approached, and the heavy metal side door creaked loudly as it opened. Gutteral couldn't say he was disappointed; the dilapidated fort was a match for a modestly sized crew like his.
An armored Gilnean wearing none other than the insignia of a royal retainer, not unlike those they'd encountered an hour earlier, cautiously exited through the creaky side door in the fort's wall. The riflemen audibly cocked their weapons as he strode in front of the trio, though Gutteral kept his hands relaxed rather than up like some sort of criminal.
"That's far enough," the Gilnean said in heavily accented Orcish.
Gutteral wouldn't give the man the satisfaction of thinking he'd sprung some sort of surprise. "I hope so," he answered back in Common, giving the human pause. "I'm Gutteral Gar of the Lion's Bane squadron."
"I know who you are," the human replied roughly.
"But you don't know why I'm here."
"I think I do. It can't be a coincidence that our scouts were attacked by your interlopers only three days ago."
"My squad sent no scouts of our own."
"Then we have nothing to discuss," the human replied while turning away.
"Don't make this-" One of the dwarves fired a warning shot into the ground, but Gutteral banked on them not wanting to escalate the conflict any more than he did, and thus he continued. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be," he said, knowing that at least one rifleman would be reloading for at least twenty seconds.
The human continued walking toward the door but turned back one last time. "You're trespassing," he hissed.
"I can bring the rest of my crew here if you want to play it like that," Gutteral said from his spot; he couldn't follow the human without seeming desperate, but the belligerent footman seemed determined not to engage.
The footman stopped at the side door and turned around. "That's a threat. That's just cause."
"Reason with us and I'll take it back."
"No deal. This is our land, so piss off."
"We'll take our citizens off of your hands and your land will be free of us."
"You said they're not yours, you rat fink!" the Gilnean retorted. The human didn't even seem interested in listening; he just wanted an argument.
"I said they're not our scouts, but they are civilians who're citizens of the Horde."
"You mongrels don't have concepts like citizenship and civil society!"
Gutteral put his fists on his hips defiantly. "This is your last chance. Return to us our people or your king will lose this glorified summer resort you call a fort-"
"Move!"
Ola yelled at the same time the second dwarf's rifle fired. She and Ukasha tried to dodge nothing, but Gutteral instinctively crouched downward and gave only his armored head and shoulders to the fort. His left shoulder tingled as a bullet put a sizeable dent into his pauldron but failed to break through.
Feet and hooves shuffled, and almost as if possessed, Gutteral felt his hands reach for his sword and bring the weapon down onto the footman, who'd tried to reach for a blade as well. Metal screeched and blood splattered, but Gutteral couldn't see exactly where his blow had connected because Ola grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away with her. Another bullet shot into the ground near him, but his only focus was pushing his two soldiers ahead of him as they all beat a hasty retreat.
"I warned you!" he shouted into the air, both at the possibly dead or dying footman and himself.
