Hinterlands Interlude 1
The army gathered.
A thousand warriors, armed and ready.
They awaited your command and as their chief you looked over the tight grid of tents and smiled.
These were warriors! This wasn't the pathetic hovels of the Alteraci army you were trying to whip into shape, these were hard-handed axebearers, eyes bright and ready for war.
From a dozen clans they came and you looked on proudly. Some were yours but of those you'd brought from Orgrimmar you only had fifty or so. The rest had joined your banner and there they would remain. The Demonsword were the largest contingent and had given you five hundred warriors, young Fel-bloods wanting to prove themselves under the aspirant, Mazath. The next largest were the Blackrocks who'd joined from across the continent whether under Kul Tiran penal sanction or drawn by your fame in battles against the Scourge. Lastly were the New Clan, drawn from the able-bodied of Hammerfall in an attempt to draw them together under your banner.
They marched under the Burning Blade, and the banner on your back was their standard. It was the largest force you'd commanded yet and you'd use it well.
You marched them hard out of Alterac. Down toward Southshore scaring more than one Alliance patrol before they saw the eagle sigil of your office flying at the head of the column. East then, and you found yourself camping in the ruins of Durnholde keep.
"This could be the start of something." Kartha said, sharing your perch above the assembly.
You would speak to them tonight, you knew. You would speak of the destiny of your people, of the honour and might of your forebears, of the discipline that came with honour.
"It will be." you assured her.
The next day you crossed through a mountain pass into the Hinterlands. These were a contested vale between the foothills of Lordaeron and the true wilds of the ancient Amani forests. There would be little civilisation to speak of there, and you'd commanded each warrior to carry his own supplies, though you'd also hoped for some sign of civilisation in the woods.
Wildhammer gryphons shadowed your march, but the hammer-throwing dwarves didn't come within hailing distance, nor did you know the route to Aerie Peak, their mountain fastness. Whether you might have wanted to speak with them was irrelevant, for though you set out a tent and food, set your banners, of the Burning Blade and of Alterac outside, no emissary came.
"We might only count on their forbearance," Kartha advised you as you sat with the veiled orc under the awning. "The last time they saw a force of this size was twenty years ago."
You'd only grunted at that.
The march went on. You saw neither the dwarves of this land nor a company of elves you understood also dwelt here. No matter, you had looked to use them as scouts and informants if possible, but you hardly intended to spend weeks wandering through the forests looking for them.
What a forest it was though! The Hinterlands were perhaps the most vibrant place you'd ever seen, verdant rather too, for in no other land had you seen as many trees and living things. You'd grown up in Durotar, you'd crossed the Barrens, you'd fought in the Plaguelands and across Lordaeron, but here there were trees you guessed had lived more than a hundred years.
You remembered lying in Razor Hill after your trip away from Sen'jin Village, you remembered seeing that the beams of the commonhouse were carved with Kul Tiran script, that the structure of the building had been repurposed from the skeleton of a human ship, wrecked on the coast.
What must it be like to live in such abundance?
The scouts reported beasts, but your warriors made swift work of them. These 'owlbears' were formidable for a single warrior, but a squad working in concert found no difficulty with them, and soon great haunches of meat spat and fizzled in the grease and herbs rubbed into them over fires at night.
Each night you ordered a palisade put up in a great square around the camp and each day you would give only one hour before the army would march. You drove them hard, twenty miles a day, and making camp at each end. The warriors ate hardtack and smoked jerky when marching, and only at night did the few outriders you had go out and find fresher food.
But your people were a hardy folk. Yours was a resilient legacy, and you would make the Breakers proud. You would beat them, burn them, force them into shape, you would forge them as Grond forged the earth.
If there was one failing of the Horde's military, in your eyes, it was ill-discipline. This was a message your father had given you many times, and one reinforced by your tutelage since childhood. Ever were the elders of your race keen to point out the need for prudence, for control over the bloodlust of your history and now you felt you'd found that in a way.
You drew extensively from the Blackrock way of war, of blocks of heavy infantry moving close together. But that wasn't enough. Your own success had proved the necessity for speed and striking power, and now you spoke with your captains and advisors in the evenings, as well as with the warriors too.
The Hinterlands was a wide vale, but you clearly weren't the first to have travelled here. Each day you came there were more signs that someone, a great many someones, had come before. The army marched on, but then in the ruins of some ancient village you found them.
A Blackrock banner floated feebly over the central hall, half-burned and the other half covered in ivy. The telltale signs of hasty evacuation are evident in the disarray left behind, for you saw tattered tents flap in the wind, their fabric bearing the marks of recent combat. Wooden palisades, once sturdy defences, now showed scars from the struggle that unfolded here.
Here were the Blackrock who had fled Alterac and the surrounding mountains, or rather, here were some of them.
The army entered the town without resistance and you found only elders and children there. Some were sick, and you set the Pureflame in the flesh of the worst as your own shaman and healers worked among the rest.
"Tell me what happened here." you ordered, and a few of the elders came forward.
Dal'rend, son of Blackhand, had indeed ordered the Blackrock remnants to be evacuated from Alterac. You'd guessed as much, but apparently, they sought to make it seem spontaneous, so as not to arouse your wroth at the idea of your population being stolen.
That in and of itself was an interesting remark, Kartha pointed out, for it spoke that Rend did not know you well, for your honour wouldn't have enabled you to act on such a slight.
The plan had apparently been to drive the Blackrock over the mountains, moving at night as much as possible and hiding amidst the trees by day. The Revantusk trolls who you'd come here to retrieve had been taken and enslaved, made to construct crude barges which would ferry the Blackrock down the coast to a port of the Dragonmaw, and there was even mention of goblin mercenaries involved. This spoke of something more, and something to think about in future, but for the moment you had hundreds more orcs to deal with.
Eventually, the Rend's commander, an Orc by name of 'Runewatcher', had ordered that the pace be accelerated. Those who couldn't keep up were left behind, and those who refused to leave them were taken and bound till they thought better of it.
It was dishonourable, it was offensive, and you made sure your opinion was well known on it.
"Who would follow a Warchief who would force you to abandon your kin?" you asked aloud as you listened to the elders speak. Their eyes, still fierce with the spirit of the Horde, betrayed a sense of resignation, understanding the harsh reality of their circumstances while the children, wide-eyed and fearful were almost innocent in their looks of hope toward you.
There were few warriors among them. A few it seemed had managed to escape the Blackrock march and slip away from the column, though mostly without their armour or weapons.
Was this not the curious complexity of your people though? Here were axebearers who had been pulled between desires. Firstly to serve their Warchief and the traditions of obedience which your people held dear, secondly to the older, softer perhaps, desire to stand their ground and protect those they hold dear.
The young Mazath stroked his chin. "I would aid them, but it seems to me that we risk the same trouble Runewatcher did."
You supposed he was not so young, only a few months your junior actually, but you felt his senior many times over.
"We do." you agreed, "But honour cannot be set aside like a troublesome pet, good only for amusement. These are our people, and we will shelter them."
You gave orders for a portion of your force to remain and fortify the town, while the rest pushed on. You were hundreds of warriors down, but if there was one thing you'd learned it was that honour would prevail.
Towering trees with gnarled roots cast long shadows over the path, and thick undergrowth which often required the warriors to wield their axes to clear the way. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the distant murmur of unseen creatures.
"Is it not strange?" you remarked at large as you looked out over yet another vista of trees, "The forest is vital indeed, to grow so swiftly."
"There is some power in these woods." spoke Zaruk the Shaman, his faded purple cloak the only sign of his previous clan. "We should be wary."
Whatever power it was, it didn't trouble you. The forest canopy above provided intermittent respite from the relentless sun, dappling the earth with patches of cool shade. Indeed, soon enough you found allies.
"Hail, Shatterskull." you greeted the Outrider.
The horribly scarred Warsong captain leapt from his mount, grasping your arm gladly.
You had felt their approach through the Earth before your own pickets had sent word, and soon enough the Warsong had emerged from the trees. Fatigue was on their faces, and wear on their weapons and gear. In both orc and worg there was the need for more than one good meal and you sat beside Shatterskull as he downed three bowls of stew that night.
The Outriders, who had been engaged in a prolonged battle against the formidable Vilebranch trolls of the region, appeared as a motley crew. You'd gladly accepted their elders, who were safely back in Alterac, you assured Shatterskull, but now you had the rest of them, hundreds of warriors who Shatterskull had led to you after learning of your presence.
Their armour bore the scars of countless encounters, and their weapons, while still serviceable, had seen better days. Despite their weary appearance, their arrival was a welcome sight to your own warriors and many songs were sung even as Shatterskull spoke dark words to you of the battles so far.
It seemed that the Hinterlands were in uproar, though you'd not have known it from your viewing. Your actions in Hammerfall had broken the fragile balance of power in the region as you'd suspected it might. The removal of Hammerfall and the Frostwolves as allies to the Warsong, the debilitation of the Witherbark trolls and their allies in the Syndicate, the resurgence of Lordaeron and their client kingdom in Stromgarde, as well as the recent forced march of the Blackrock had disturbed the situation greatly. Shatterskull had more information for you. His fight was with the Vilebranch and great enmity was there between two forces.
"I will pledge myself and my warriors to you." the captain promised, "But let us have one final battle with the Vilebranch. They are an evil folk, as malevolent and treacherous a people as any I've encountered. That we must leave this land we understand and I already gave orders to burn our camps in the hills, yet I would not have us slink away while there's still strength in our arms!"
"That is the strength we will show them." you agreed.
In truth, you had no particular hatred toward the Vilebranch, not the same history and anger that Shatterskull did anyway, but it was enough that the Orc had pledged to you, honour now dictated that you see to his feuds and protect his folk as your own.
You marched on Shadra'alor, the holy site of the troll spider god.
Each troll tribe held a certain number of 'loa', powerful spirits representing natural forces or tutelary beings. The Amani held many, over a dozen as Kartha told you, but each subordinate tribe like the Vilebranch held fewer, their power and worship unable to sustain such a large pantheon. Chief among the Vilebranch's loa was the Mother of Venom, and it was her temple your attack threatened.
Once again, you had no enmity toward the Amani priesthood, but you knew from Shatterskull's report that the direction of your march would call up the Vilebranch out of their city, Jintha'alor.
The battle that occurred was swift.
The Blackrock approached first. Theirs was an ancestral form of war and they knew it well, despite the lack of practice. They chanted the songs of war which gave instruction and discipline to their formation. They stood strong in a clearing toward the outskirts of Shadra'alor behind their shields.
As the trolls sallied out from the tangled undergrowth, they respond with their own chaotic war dances and gesticulations, invoking the Shadra's dark blessings. Enthralled and alchemically enhanced by the venom of the Spider God, frothing trolls charged into the Blackrock lines with a fury. The clash was loud and the clang of steel rent the air.
You struck then. The Burning Blade were around you, and the Demonsword too. Your people moved with confidence and skill, striking and breaking through the lines of the trolls with you at their head. You swiftly turned, making across the troll formation with three of their shaman dying to your blade before the rest turned to flee, incanting strange spells which set a inky darkness all around you.
But you would not tolerate such obfuscation. The Light of your soul shone and you felt resistance as your will banished the blackness.
Then came the howls. The Warsong clan, mounted atop their wargs, sweept around the battlefield's flanks to engage the trolls from unexpected angles. Shatterskull was at their head and roared his own cry as he leapt from his mount into a knot of trolls before rising swiftly, his axe slaying as he stood. The wargs tangled with the trolls' tame spiders, the creatures unused to the fury of prey that would fight back.
The tide of battle turned and like the tide, the trolls fled back to their city. They broke, throwing down their weapons as you pursued them into the city, only halting to concentrate as you called on Myzrael to open a breach in the ill-maintained walls.
"Hold!" you cried as you saw your own formations disintegrating in the rush. "Hold! Scorn, get them in order!"
It took a while, long enough for the trolls to disappear before you'd managed to stop the pursuit. More than once Scorn cracked the haft of his spear across the back of a warrior to get them to pay attention, but eventually, you managed it.
"Get back to the battlefield and bring the wounded within." you ordered Shatterskull. "The trolls wounded too, if any live and can be saved."
"Aye, Warchief!"
You didn't react at that, turning instead to Scorn. "We'll camp here tonight. Seize buildings and provisions. The shouldn't have had chance to poison anything, with speed they came in at."
"Is it wise to establish yourselves here, within bowshot of the enemy?" the captain asked.
You looked up to Shadra'alor. In truth you were in the outskirts of the settlement, the temple of the Spider God was above, built as a great ziggurat into the mountains beyond a dark pond.
"It's better than camping in the woods and needing to fight off troll infiltrators." you replied, "The wargs will see to our defence tonight. We'll be gone tomorrow. Let none set fires or go wantonly through the Vilebranch possessions, we are not here as thieves."
"Aye, Warchief." Scorn replied.
The way he said it was much more deliberate than Shatterskull.
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