Chapter 8

Alterac, Strahnbrad, Early Spring

It was now as it should have been all these past years, and he, Zugorre Fleshrender, would keep it so.

It was long ago that the old Horde was broken at the Battle of Blackrock Spire, the combatants dying by the tens of thousands under the crimson sun and falling ashes of the volcano.

But the remnants had slowly regrouped over the years and led by the son of the legendary Blackhand, the first Warchief of the united clans of the Horde, Rend, they found strength once more.

The brutal Warchief had somehow managed to secure an alliance with the black dragons around Blackrock Spire, and so they had been able to remake the fortress that it once was, after spending many nights in the dank swamps to the south.

Zugorre was commissioned to take a large garrison of reorganized troops north, to Lordaeron, with the scant warships the Horde had managed to steal or salvage, their entire fleet destroyed in the damnable battle at Crestfall.

And so he departed, taking nearly a fifth of the Warchief's force, 10,000 orc warriors, many being veterans of the past wars, and by raiding some of the harbors around northern Khaz'Modan after a long march, his force had been able to obtain a few capital ships that the Alliance had foolishly had strung up as well as those few ships of the Old Horde's fleet.

After a short sea trip, the force had disembarked upon the shores of the militant Stromgarde, and made their way north, into the southern Alterac region. But upon the landing, many of the troops had been scattered and were now pinpricked across the southern coasts of Lordaeron.

Though broken, his force continued to push north in their effort to bring strike at the Alliance's weak underbelly which had remained minimally guarded since the end of the war.

"Lok-tar ogar Warlord!" a grunt to his left bellowed out, pounding his meaty green fist across his chest in a sign of respect. "Jubeil'thos's scouts have located a large Alliance army moving towards our location!"

"About damned time! These pinkskins still take far too long to react…just like before…" he muttered to himself, reflecting quickly on the glorious, bloody war that raged across this very same land fifteen years ago. He had hungered for this sort of massive battle again.

Already he carried the scars of many battles, the prestige of his clan, but the wrinkles of many years as well.

Behind him, the troops, beginning the feel the onset of the oh-so-delicious bloodlust coming over themselves, cheered but were quickly hushed by the elder orcs, who knew the ways of the world and war better.

Many of the hosts were of a younger generation, bred within the safe confines of the swamps, or the few lingering outposts in the Blasted Lands to the far south, or within the retaken Blackrock Spire, which once taken by the Alliance the first time was quickly abandoned once again, leaving it for the dragons and dwarves, or the new batch that had come from the homeworld of Draenor before the Dark Portal shut.

Warchief Blackhand had insisted on keeping the clans separate, as had been the old ways, each given its own area within the newly held lands, and its own voice in the Council of Septs, which had replaced the Shadow Council's gluing aspects, though it was all up the Warchief in the end anyway. His politicking had managed them this far, and Zugorre trusted the great Warchief, who would soon return them to the glory of the old days.

"How strong are their forces?" Zugorre spoke up, voice rough with the strain of old battles long past.

"Four thousand at least commander! A ripe target I do say!" the scout replied, face twisting into a sadistic grin.

Beside him, the envoy commander of the remaining Shattered Hand Clan, Jagaz Gutreaper, moved forward, "Let us meet them head-on, and with our strength grind through their bones with our teeth this night!" The Shattered Hand, or those who had barely escaped the four-day death throes of Draenor, had had at least a third of its force captured by the policing Alliance forces in the Black Morass, who then later joined the ignorant and foolish Shaman, Thrall.

Jagaz and his forces, however, were vital to the effort of the reorganized Horde. The Alliance was simply too powerful for the scattered Blackrock Clan to defeat, and so complete allegiance to Warchief Dal'Rend Blackhand was needed, which Jagaz saw as his way to gain power, and escape the Alliance forces that constantly hunted for his hide and that of his warriors.

Typical. Zugore thought to himself. "Yes Jagaz, we shall fight the pinkskins today! And we shall bathe in their blood! But first, the village of Strahnbrad must be taken. The surrounding area is a good defensive country, and we have not the numbers to attack the enemy head-on. You shall then move against the humans" he bellowed out.

"Defensive!" Jagaz seemed to be taken aback "We should make the Warchief proud of this day Zugorre, proud of the Horde!" the orc's eyes seethed a seeming red flame, the side effect of the blood curse.

"Battle shall come soon enough Jagaz, but first we must allow the warlocks to initiate the Blood Ceremony. Then, and only then will we have the reignited strength to attack the pinkskins again" Zugorre said, in an overly enthusiastic voice.

Jagaz seemed to relish the thought of being rekindled with the powers of full demon-blood, as had all their people in days past. Too many years had gone by without a ceremony. Yet, Zugorre knew they still wouldn't be strong enough to defeat such a force. Appeasing the warlords would have to do for now.

He needed every warrior available when the Alliance did come, and oh, they would. For now, Zugorre knew he was on the defensive, at least until he could regroup with the rest of the Horde forces scattered pockets of resistance around the Hillsbrad and Southshore areas.