Chapter 5: Of Landfall and Old Hatreds
Eastern Coastline of the Barrens, Mid Autumn
"So this is Kalimdor?" Alaric'Quel whispered to himself in disappointment. "I thought it would be more verdant, as the Elders recited. Oh well, we must set base camp up"
He sought shade under a nearby strangely formed palm tree and looked back at the cove. The rocky coast harbored dozens of the Blood Elf fleet ships and many other canoes ferrying troops and supplies to the beaches. So far, he had brought nearly half of his force up counting many thousands.
"Captain Loren, have your column form up. We are going to go on a mapping expedition" he said to a nearby human who with his men, passing out wooden crates from the ships.
"Sir?" the human replied in a puzzled tone.
"Well man, we can't just march into Durotar without knowing the enemies weaknesses and where they are" he answered in a baffled voice. Rebels in Theramore had destroyed most of the maps and supplies they had captured in a night raid. Another reason he had chosen Captain Loren's group was because the Captain himself was a bull-headed commander likely to destroy his battalion when faced with Orcs. Orcs were far different than the Undead that this human generation faced.
"Yes milord. Let us just finish unpacking the supplies from the ships" Captain Loren ended.
The transition from Theramore to the coast of Kalimdor went smoothly and without much difficulty other than a brawl that had spread between some humans and dwarfs. Before he departed, he left some orders for his commanders.
"In my absence, your 1st Corps is to prepare a settlement. I want this beach secure from any attackers. Am I understood Eolas?" Alaric spoke to his First Captain.
"Yes Lord Quel. The entire beachhead will be secure in time for when you get back"
"Good, now lets move out!" he shouted to Loren's battalion. The steeds from Theramore proved to be a resilient breed, good for the long trackless amounts of rugged terrain that lay ahead. Alaric had grown affectionate to his own horse, which he named Angorin, in honor of the last High-Elven King Angorin the Resilient.
For a long and tiring week, the band surveyed the landscape around them. Alaric learned of Stonetalon Peak, where a powerful artifact he would want to collect lay, called the Heart of Azune. They were constantly under attack by strange bird women harpies, or pig monstrosities called they dubbed quill boars. Even so, they found no hard evidence of Orc settlements or the vaunted Orc city of Ogrimmar.
"I think we have landed too far north of Durotar. Perhaps it lays to the south instead" Alaric stated one evening, about a week after they had set out.
The men had camped themselves in a canyon for the night, and the troops were scouring for an oasis to find some waters, or perhaps even a Fountain of Health, whose holy waters would revive those who had fallen sick. Suddenly, something caused the palms in front of them sway.
"Quillboars!" Alaric heard someone scream. From behind the branches sprung nearly a dozen quillboars. Alaric picked up a spear from the stack lying near his tent, and threw it with great intensity at the leading quillboar. The spear flying at its huge velocity gutted the quillboar passing clean through its back and out its ribcage. The quillboar let out a scream as it dropped to the floor writhing in its own gore. A thin line of Dwarven riflemen and Blood Elf archers lined up among the edge of the camp and let out a volley of arrows and musket balls. Instantly, another half a dozen of the quillboars fell to the sandy, gritty ground. The rest turned and fled.
"Damned animals" Alaric spat looking at the body of a fallen Blood Elf comrade. The Elf's throat had been cut by one of the quills flying through the air. Then, Alaric noticed that something was wrong.
"Captain, ready your men!" he whispered loudly to Loren who was standing but a few yards from him.
"What? Why milord?" the human asked, again without the understanding of a good tactician.
"It's a tra-"Alaric wasn't able to finish his sentence. From behind the camp, huge green skinned monsters rushed out of the brush. The brutes, whom stood nearly eight feet tall with bulky muscles, and wore nearly no armor except for the leather straps as clothes, were screaming something incoherent as they blindly ran with war axes toward the camp.
"Ready yourselves! Orcs are upon the camp!" Alaric ordered. But it was too late. By the time the Elf, Dwarf, and Human troops had noticed the attack, the Orcs had almost plowed through the battle line.
"The basterds!" Alaric thought while dodging and striking with his blade against an especially large Orc "They cornered the quillboars as bait for us!"
"Retreat! Fallback to the forest!" someone yelped. He saw Loren through the midst of battle calling to the last remaining soldiers gathering around him or already in flight. Alaric joined in his call, and for once, Loren seemed to understand their plight. The Blood Elf again and again evaded the Orc's axe throws and finally jumped to its side and thrust his blade into its skull. The Orc fell with a thump. He then jumped up and ran for the forest.
An hour had passed oh so slowly as Alaric gathered the survivors in the forest undergrowth. Of the three hundred troops in the regiment, only two dozen had made it out, and most were scattered throughout the canyon, probably to be rooted out by the Orcs.
"So, we are getting closer, if not already in Durotar" he mumbled silently. Alaric, sitting on a stone in the middle of a chartless forest slipped into deep thought of the past.
Of all the enemies he had faced over the centuries, the Orcs and Undead were the most vile, and despicable abominations he had ever faced. He remembered the battles of the Second War, and how Orgrim Doomhammer had driven his troops against the Alliance. He remembered fighting against the Horde at the shores of Gilneas, in Stromgarde, the desperate last stands of Lordaeron, and the burning of much of Quel'thalas. The liberation of Khaz-Modan, and the retaking of Stormwind. He also came to remember the red burning world of Draenor where he had fought with the archmage Khadgar, the veteran soldier Danath, and Lord Turalyon. He, and his brigade were the only survivors of Draenor that he knew of, escaping the wreckage of the realm before it imploded on itself through the Dark Portal.
Alaric zapped back to reality and realized that much of the night had passed. Whilst the troops slept, he scanned the surroundings quickly before sitting down again on the stone.
"I must get back to Eolas and the main army" he thought feverently. "Without me, the plan will fall apart".
The torn and ragged group of survivors cut a path back through the forest to find themselves standing on some cliffs, overlooking a vast desert spotted with clusters of trees and primitive huts.
"So, Durotar has been found at last. Now that we know the way, we can eliminate the Orc threat" Alaric spoke to his men. Just as the group began to turn back into the palm forest, more Orcs appeared from the sides. This time, Alaric knew it would be a fight to the death.
"Stand your ground! Do your duty! Rememberence of Lordaeron and Quel'thalas! Of Khaz-Modan and Azeroth!" he let loose a flurry of battle cries that some of his men cheered on. Others cried out in panic and fear and fled at full speed.
Just as an Orc desendid upon Alaric, something from behind collided with his head and back. He fell face first into the muddy ground.
The world was spinning. The wild look of the trees and sun violently twirled around creating a double image. Then, the world started to go dark. Alaric's vision had almost blacked out when he last saw an Orc towering above him.
Alaric's vision had completely blurred out into blackness. The last thing he heard was the thundering voice of the Orc.
"Leave this one alive. Take him to the Warchief"
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