Three days later, southern Hilsbrad foothills.
It was done.
Three days following Thrall's vision, the Horde had mobilized: breaking camp and joining his immediate followers with all available supplies at a carefully selected staging location some distance from Southshore. Whatever his thoughts on the previous wars, he was proud of the competence displayed by his people. Males and females from each clan, along with the small number of orc children in existence. All had answered the call. Most adults possessed at least a modicum of combat skill, and some brought with them the fierce, giant wolves long prized as mounts by his people.
Most significant was the large count of shaman now present. One of his first acts as Warchief was to quash the usage of fel magic with as much ruthlessness as necessary. Thrall had offered a one-time amnesty to those warlocks willing to abandon that path and repent. Seemingly, near all had the gall to attempt the evasion of this more than generous edict. He and his many loyalists had rooted out and eliminated these, with him personally executing them in public when possible. As was proper.
Though he feared some of those maggots had inevitably remained in hiding, there was little to be done about them for the moment. While some advisors had bemoaned the perceived tactical loss, Thrall had made it emphatically clear that the elements which were once revered by their people were the present and future. They would provide the supernatural edge vital in war.
The Warchief had allowed rumors of their purpose to circulate throughout the Horde, and was very pleased by the mounting morale elicited. Once the final clan arrived - the Warsong, led by Grom Hellscream - he would make his address. Unfortunately, what came next would prove far more difficult.
"Are you any closer to acceptance?" Varok Saurfang approached from behind.
Thrall responded to his advisor without turning. "What do you think."
"The Warsong could arrive any moment. You are out of time." said the older orc, blunt as his son.
"I am fully aware of that."
"The prospect of a new home is welcome, to say the least. And you are correct, we do not benefit from further conflict with the Alliance. But you are leading us to a well-protected port in the hopes of stealing a small fleet. We can take it, but it will cost us. And as you know many humans will die. They will not forget either slight."
Despite a warning growl, the councilor continued undeterred, indicating those that had gathered with an arm sweep. "Not many of them know you well enough to sense your turmoil. But every one of us deserves your conviction, Warchief."
Said leader attempted to formulate a rebuke, only to be interrupted. "Warchief!" a wolf rider approached and saluted briskly. "The Warsong have arrived."
"My thanks, warrior." Choosing to ignore the pointed-stare from Saurfang, Thrall moved towards his own wolf, stabled nearby.
Some minutes later he had reached the newcomers, greeted by salutes and calls of "Throm'ka, Warchief!"
He nodded, singling out a nearby orc. "Where is Hellscream?"
This was met by concerned and downcast expressions. "There were signs of human soldiers in the area. Grom ordered us to press on and led a scouting party, several hours ago."
"Damn it, Grom. I want fifteen riders, the rest of you join the camp ahead. We will find them."
War wolves were not as fast as the horses favored by humanity, but enjoyed greater endurance and a near-unparalleled sense of smell. It did not take long for them to pick up the trace of orcs, along with a greater number of humans. In a little over an hour, they had tracked both to a moderately sized field surrounded by forest. Near its center was a slightly elevated hill, upon which there was a relatively small encampment of Lordaeron soldiers. As feared.
Thrall swore under his breath, "damn you, Grom." He had brought a small company specifically in the hopes of avoiding detection, a skill with which his people had never been particularly adept at the best of times. Now, he had paid a price for that impulse. Hidden just beyond the tree line, he studied the camp.
There were likely more than enough soldiers to handily defeat his riders and himself in melee combat. Worse, a number of them were archers and plenty of picketed horses were present. The former always merited extreme caution, and at this distance there would even be enough time for the latter to mount and counter-charge.
The shaman closed his eyes and entreated the elements, invoking the gift of farsight. When he opened once more, the origin of his vision had been shifted to the center of the camp. He was uncertain if the frequent Alliance mages, priests, paladins and such were capable of detecting shamanic powers, but any risk had to be taken. Fortunately, there appeared to be no mystical individuals present, as far as he could tell. Nor were the weapons and armor visibly enchanted. Grom was very much alive, along with three others - all heavily fettered.
"Your orders, Warchief?"
Thrall delayed his answer, torn. His powers should be more than sufficient to destroy the camp, likely killing most if not all the soldiers in the process. He was loathe to do so and might also risk his own people in the act. He still lacked the practiced-precision of some veteran far seers, and feared that the elements may be less forgiving powers than some.
"Warchief?"
He surveyed his warriors. Seven carried short bows. In his haste to find Hellscream, he had neglected to ensure all were thus armed, however much orcs disliked such weapons. Nothing to be done about that now. These were both shorter ranged and less powerful than the longer bows and rifles of the alliance, somewhat ineffective against the formidable armor of knights and even rank-and-file footmen. And yet… The glimmer of a plan emerged. High risk, but under the circumstances perhaps the least such option.
"Those of you with bows will leave the trees and ambush the knights. Draw them into a chase, out of archer support. When they close, lead them into the woods. Lose them, then make a wide, extended circuit back to camp. Report in three hours." Wolves were more suited to maneuvering through rough terrain, such as these dense forests. Thrall was confident they could escape. "I will target the camp, you others will join me in saving Hellscream. For the Horde."
Fifteen voices enthusiastically echoed, "for the Horde!"
In minutes, all was in readiness. At a signal from Thrall's new position, the riders were away, surging forward and launching the first volley, punctuated by howls of "lok'tar ogar!" Shouts of alarm rose from the men, though only two arrows found a mark and neither looked to have pierced armor. To the humans' credit, the state of confusion was brief. knights leaping to horse while both archers and infantry scrambled into such ranks as numbers allowed with practiced ease. Fortunately the captain - identified by the more ornate, gold accented plate and standing near the prisoners - made the mistake the Warchief had hoped for.
"More orc savages! Knights!" The captain indicated with a sword thrust. Said cavalry, already mounted on the heavily armored steeds, charged forward in formation, successfully splitting the force and diverting attention.
"For Lordaeron!"
"For King Terenas!"
Thrall steeled himself, then tapped into his ethereal bond to a realm beyond this world: a place of smoke, ash, and eternal flame. He reached out to two sources of heat, insignificant by contrast: simple campfires amongst the tents ahead, some distance from the prisoners. He established himself as a conduit to these. Thus prepared, the far seer channeled his power in an explosive burst, causing those fires to erupt into inferno.
Immediate shock, horror and general bedlam ensued. Not unreasonably, the soldiers reacted as most would when spontaneously threatened with a vast, spreading and clearly supernatural fire. They broke ranks and fled for their lives, discipline temporarily broken. All had seemingly escaped.
Going well, so far.
Finally, Thrall beseeched another, more physical plane and became one with it. He focused all the might that he could through the Doomhammer and delivered a massive, two-handed blow to the ground. A short distance from the trees, the ground was rent in a great fissure racing towards, then through the encampment. The prisoners - along with several humans - were isolated from both the blaze and other soldiers. Although the latter now seemed well beyond hope of recovering morale following both displays. Thrall hoped so, at least.
He turned to his brethren. "I will lead the way to our brothers. Follow in a minute."
"But Warchief-" started one.
"Do you doubt my abilities?" growled Thrall.
"Never, Warchief!" another affirmed with confidence.
"Good." Thrall spurred his wolf into a run, rapidly approached the hill and dismounted shortly before the crest, racing up the space remaining. Grom and the others remained bound and gagged, struggling with futility while the captain and six others gathered their bearings. Upon his arrival, the soldiers instantly set shields and assumed a fan-shaped formation, facing him with the captain in the center and the others poised to flank.
Thrall raised his hammer in one hand, stretching out the other arm to bar the snarling wolf at his heels. "Stand down, humans. I only come to free my own."
The captain paused for a moment. "You… I recognize you. You and that armor are plastered on every wanted poster from here to the capital!" the man spat. He raised his voice to rally his companions. "Men, this is the orc responsible for the insurrection, their 'warchief.' If we defeat him, surely his rebellion will soon follow!"
Though clearly still shaken, the footmen regained their resolve, giving nods and mutters of assent. Thrall admired their courage. That did not make what was to come any easier. While he had earned some confidence in his own skill, he faced seven professional soldiers. There was too much risk to the prisoners, his mount and his people that would shortly arrive.
"We will not be caged again. Withdraw, warriors!" Even knowing the futility, he had to try.
His opponents were unmoved, charging in flank. Thrall was out of time and alternatives. "Forgive me, Taretha." he whispered, embracing the domain of skies and storms. With a painless jolt, energy flooded his form, gathered at his fingertips, and was unleashed as a bolt of lightning. His opponents were entirely unprepared for this assault, not that it would have made a difference.
The bolt struck the captain, then arced between every soldier on both sides. Even without the substantial amplification provided by metal armor, the humans would have had no hope. All collapsed, near instantly killed. Skin charred beyond recognition, armor blackened and smoking, limbs twitching spasmodically.
He tore his eyes away, then gestured at the captives. The simple metal shackles bent to his will, breaking harmlessly into more basic, earthen ore. Freed, the orcs climbed stiffly to their feet, removing gags. Thrall looked them over, "Hellscream, are any of you injured?"
The Warsong moved to recover their weapons, revealed in the ruins of a tent nearby, as the chief gave a reluctant chuckle. "Only our pride, little brother." Grom Hellscream was taller than Thrall, albeit more slender. A veteran of countless battles and among the most renowned orc warriors alive.
Thrall nodded, before his gaze was drawn back to his handiwork. "This isn't what I wanted." he muttered to himself, feeling hollow.
Grom heard, approached and slapped him on the nearest pauldron. "Its what the Horde needed, Warchief."
Said leader nodded once more, his guilt not at all assuaged. The sound of numerous footfalls announced the arrival of his warriors. Nine wolves would be plenty to evacuate four additional orcs. "Mount up."
Hours later, Thrall stood in a small, hastily-erected pavilion, surrounded by his inner circle. Clan chiefs, along with a number of prominent warriors and shaman. All had answered his summons. He had known Grom longer than any other chief, and that orc stood in a place of honor several steps away to his right. In addition to his role as a significant advisor, Saurfang had assumed the mantle of leadership over the formidable Blackrock clan upon the death of Orgrim. He and his son stood to the left, opposite Grom. Another honored personality was Drek'thar, blind senior shaman of Thrall's own Frostwolves and his mentor in that calling.
"I have called and you have answered. With all the skill, discipline and haste I expect." This elicited a proud exultation or nod from most present. As grateful as Thrall was, it would not do to issue a heartfelt 'thank you' to his subordinates. Orgrim had taught him well. He motioned for silence.
"It is time you learned why I summoned you. The spirits have granted me a vision. A vision of such clarity that it cannot possibly be ignored." All listened, wary and rapt. Since Thrall had decisively reestablished shamanism amongst his race, none would now take such visions lightly from any farseer - let alone one that led the Horde. "The demons come for this world."
A stunned, short silence followed. Then the shouting began.
"What, why? How?!"
"How is this possible?"
"What chance can we have?" To name but a few.
"Enough!" the Warchief called firmly, causing voices and chaos to fizzle. He took a swift moment to read the room. Unsurprisingly, expressions tended to be variations of anger, concern and fear. However, when his eyes swept past Hellscream, the warsong looked more contemplative than anything else. Odd, considering his reputation for belligerence and volatility, even by orc standards.
Thrall frowned, but ignored the thought. "I was not shown how they will arrive, or when. Only that it will be very soon, and that they will strike northern Azeroth first. We have only one option: we must leave at once. A purpose some of you may have guessed."
"How, Warchief?" one voiced.
"We are gathered near the human port, Southshore. Tomorrow, we will go there and take the ships for our own."
This encouraged some. Saurfang, already aware of his plans, gave a simple prompt. "And go where, Warchief?"
"The spirits have shown me more, the path that must be taken. Far to the west, across the ocean lies another continent. Larger, wilder and more free than the one upon which we stand. It is here that we and unknown others might defy and defeat the demons. If victorious, there are lands and a destiny for us to claim our own!" The atmosphere began shifting as Thrall spoke, hope spreading, and finally drawing a wordless cheer.
"What will be our strategy?" Saurfang followed up.
"I will lead a force. The shaman and I will overcome the defenses in the morning and clear a path. We will then seize those ships and sail to a nearby cove, where the remainder of the Horde will be prepared to join us. By the time Lordaeron has mustered enough force to pursue, we will be long gone. I want every shaman reporting to this post within the hour, along with those of us with sailing experience of any kind. We begin at first light. Now, get to work."
Long before dawn, Thrall stood concealed within the forest, a considerable distance from the Southshore wall. Two dozen shaman surrounded him , those he judged powerful and/or skilled enough to participate in his scheme. Close behind stood near one-hundred orcs with varying degrees of naval familiarity, along with handpicked others that received rapid instruction. Smaller counts than hoped for, but there was little to be done. He was reassured by the presence of Drek'thar, Grom and Saurfang in the ranks.
We can wait no longer.
With extreme care, he employed his distant sight-shift once more. The settlement was too large and important not to feature supernatural individuals of some sort and he remained uncertain of detection. In a blur, he now viewed Southshore from far above. Clearly they had chosen the moment well, most of the citizenry hadn't risen to greet the day, while only the smallest acceptable number of guards stood watch. Excitement grew as his vision reached the prize they sought: numerous sea-worthy ships, many of considerable size. He was far from an expert, but he surmised that there might indeed be enough to evacuate his people.
Thrall returned to his own eyes, glancing skyward once more. Heavily overcast, not uncommon at more northern climes, but thick enough to near fully block the light and timed near perfectly to suit their purpose. The spirits do watch over us.The thought brought a small smile. He addressed his shaman. "Begin."
Under the direction of Drek'thar, each elementalist moved, creating a circle with Thrall at the epicenter. That completed, they reached for the elements and gradually focused them through him. His eyes widened, followed by an involuntary gasp as he felt his strength steadily increase. Drek'thar had told him in detail of the ritual when he sought advice before ordering the previous council. Though Thrall had some awareness of what to expect, he was unprepared for the torrent of power flooding through him. Was this what it felt like to be a god?
The thought gave him more trepidation than anything else, though hardly enough to falter. When he felt his temporary empowerment reaching a zenith, Thrall brought his will to bear on the sky. Gradually, freezing, torrential rain began to fall upon the greater Southshore area. He allowed this to proceed for some time, then, even further enhanced, started to steadily invoke gale-force winds and heavy thunder. Finally, a powerful lightning storm high above the port.
He sustained the spell for a time, then with effort, turned his head to regard Saurfang. The older orc immediately raised a pilfered human spyglass. "They have abandoned the wall!"
Thrall released his grip on the sky and the link. They would have to trust that the volatile, localized storm lasted of its own accord for the moment. "Now!" he roared, and as one, they rushed for the town. He had feared the storm might have tested the loyalty of their wolves beyond wisdom, and they were not particularly suited for this task in any case.
The storm furiously continued, unabated. In minutes they had reached the wall, seemingly undetected. Thrall and the other orcs at the head immediately pressed the gate, with a fervent hope that it was unbarred. It was not, of course. Swearing, the Warchief scrambled for options. Outright destruction of the gate might well cost the hard-won advantage of stealth.
Then, a spark of intuition. He handed his hammer to a nearby warrior and levitated, molded, and sharpened several rocks into something loosely resembling a primitive, narrow two-handed axe. This he grasped, further empowered with an earthen blessing, and swung heavily in the space between the gates, cleaving the bar. Others joined in the push, and moments later a straight-shot to the docks was visible. The charge resumed.
Inevitably, they were seen. The shouts started before they had covered even half the distance, naturally.
"Damn it! Press on, warriors!" He allowed his people to fully pass, then turned, channelling another massive blow to the paved road, sundering the earth once more. He raised his hands, and a formidable wall of earthen spikes erupted, barring the road behind. "Shaman! Seal the doors!" This possibility had been discussed and his casters were prepared, each forming similar, smaller barriers on other buildings as they rushed onward.
At last! They reached the docks, and Thrall summoned the greatest wall he could behind them for good measure. Hopefully this delayed access for the defenders. "That should hold them! To the ships!" Thrall shouted, panting and staggering slightly from his efforts. He was exhausted, which compounded his concern about sailing beneath the monster they had unleashed above. Still, that was vastly preferable to the alternative. His people had immediately joined predetermined crews boarding the vessels, ensuring at least one shaman and 'veteran sailors' to each.
It felt like an eternity, but the ships were soon loaded and away. Thrall was on the last to leave, now focusing the collective elemental power available on attempting to coax the wind, rain, and particularly lightning away from the new flotilla as they fled with all haste. Unfortunately, a flawless victory was not and seemingly never to be. Of their own accord, most of his crews took up a roar of victory, which proved as unwisely premature as should perhaps be expected.
The din was overshadowed as a very different thunder sounded, and the ship in front of them was struck by two tragically lucky cannon balls. One shattered the mainmast and a portion of the deck before careening into the ocean, while the other impacted below the waterline. Shortly after, Thrall would conclude that either the second carried some incendiary enchantment he was unaware of, or had the misfortune to impact something combustible.
Regardless, in the moment he could only watch in horror as the ship exploded, taking all hands with it, almost catching his own craft in the conflagration. He found himself feeling little anger, only grief. He buried it deeply and looked away, resuming his duty. For the Horde.
Heavily augmented by wind and wave via many exhausted shaman, the ships made a rapid, if clumsy journey to the chosen cove. A day later, the Horde had escaped, bound for Kalimdor. Their pursuers found little beyond broken camps with scant indication of intent or destination. Surprisingly, the Warchief found relatively peaceful rest that first night at sea. His only dream was fleeting, in which he was greeted by the raven once more.
"Well done, Thrall. We will meet again."
Hope you enjoyed the revised prologue.
I recently learned of the additional 'exodus of the horde' missions. Had they actually been well-executed and in the base game, I might have given Blizzard a few points. May revisit them in the future. Hopefully the repairs I have attempted are enough to salvage Thrall without delving into three further missions at this time.
Buckle up, because the next campaign took the story to the grave - figuratively and literally.