of Garrosh’s enthusiasm had had positive results among the warriors. Cairne had to wonder if perhaps Thrall, in praising the good Grom had indeed done, had overly downplayed the harm Grom had also caused.
Thrall, the warchief of the Horde and a wise as well as courageous leader, had clashed on more than one occasion with the brash young Garrosh. Before the disaster that was the Wrath Gate had occurred, Garrosh had actually challenged Thrall to fight in the arena at Orgrimmar. And, more recently, Garrosh had allowed himself to be baited by Varian Wrynn’s angry taunts and had charged at the king of Stormwind, clashing violently with him in the heart of Dalaran itself.
And yet, Cairne could not argue with Garrosh’s success and popularity, nor the joyful zeal and passion with which the Horde responded to him. Granted, unlike some rumors would have it, Garrosh had not single-handedly beaten back the Scourge, slaughtered the Lich King, and made Northrend safe for Horde children to frolic in. But there was no denying the fact that he had led incursions that had been unqualified successes. He had brought back to the Horde a sense of fierce pride and fire for battle. He had managed, every time, to turn what looked like lunacy into a rousing success.
Cairne was too intelligent to dismiss this as coincidence or accident. So bold he could be called reckless Garrosh might be, but recklessness did not yield the results that Grom’s son had gotten. Garrosh had been exactly what the Horde needed at what was arguably its darkest, most vulnerable hour, and Cairne was willing to give the boy that.
“Dis be as far as we be goin’,” said Captain Tula to Cairne, shouting out orders to have the smaller boats lowered. “Warsong Hold be not far, straight to da east up da hills.”
Tula knew exactly what she was talking about, having sailed between here and Ratchet countless times over the last several seasons. This knowledge had been why Thrall had requested she captain Mannoroth’s Bones. Cairne nodded.
“Open one of the kegs of ogre brew to reward your hardworking crew for their diligence,” he said to her in his deep, slow-paced voice. “But save some for the brave warriors who will be making their journey home after so long.”
Tula brightened considerably. “Yes, High Chieftain,” she said. “Thank ya. We be keepin’ it to da one keg.”
Cairne squeezed her shoulder, nodding his approval, and then, with not a little trepidation, lowered his great bulk into the seemingly tiny, cramped boat that would bear him the rest of the way to shore. The fog clung to his fur like spider’s webbing, cloying and cold. It was with pleasure that, a few moments later, he stepped out into the frigid waters that lapped on the shore of Garrosh’s Landing and helped tug the boat firmly aground.
The mist was still present but seemed to thin the further inland they went. They trudged past broken, abandoned siege engines and discarded weaponry and armor, past the remains of a long-abandoned farm with pig skeletons that had been bleached white by the sun. They continued up the slight incline, the tundra soil covered with some sort of red plant that stubbornly persisted in existing despite the harshness of this place. Cairne respected that.
Warsong Hold loomed ahead, clearly and proudly visible. It appeared to be located in the center of a quarry, the hollow providing a practical barrier. Nerubians, an ancient race of spidery beings, many of whose corpses had been raised by necromantic magic, had attempted attacks at various times, but no longer. What had once been strong, sticky webbing had now been cut or worn down to nothing more than a few ropy strands that danced harmlessly in the wind. Along with the Scourge, they, too, had retreated before the dedicated efforts of the Horde.
Up ahead, Cairne caught a blur of movement as a scout caught sight of the Horde standard at the front of Cairne’s entourage and dashed away. Cairne and his group followed along the line of the quarry until they encountered a path that descended into it. It was not an impressive entrance, but a workmanlike one, and Cairne found himself in what had been the forge area.
Now, though, no rivers of yellow molten metal flooded the channels; there was no “tink tink” sound of hammer on anvil. His nose, keener than his eyesight these days, caught the faint, stale scent of wolf. The beasts had been gone for some time, sent