Bradok clutched to the reins but not out of fear. He had forgotten all that the first time his dragon had taken wing, carrying him high into the sky. It was amazing, soaring among the clouds, and Bradok, who had always been a dutiful warrior but never more than content, had suddenly discovered true happiness. He was meant for this, meant to sail the skies, his massive red dragon beating its wings, the wind rushing through the crest of his hair. He still remembered the thrill of seeing flames spew from his dragon's mouth, and watching the trees burst from the sudden heat that incinerated them as soon as it touched them.

Glancing down, Bradok saw a stretch of silver amid the greens and browns of this rich world. That was the sea, he knew, the same one they had crossed after sacking that other kingdom not long ago.

Tapping his dragon with his heels, Bradok urged his mount lower and the dragon responded, furling its wings and diving down in a steep, exhilarating rush. The sea swelled in Bradok's vision, stretching almost to the horizon, and now he could see the dark shapes strung out where the sea met the shore. Those would be their ships, the ones that had carried the Horde from the other continent to this one. Bradok hated ships. He wasn't overly fond of water, either. But the air, that was a wonderful thing.

Pulling his dragon out of the dive, Bradok coasted over the ships, seeing the poor orcs seated in the benches all down their lengths, pulling on the long oars that kept the boat moving. An ogre stood near the center of each ship, beating time on a massive drum, and the orcs pulled in time, their steady strokes sending the dark ships sliding back into the water.

Bradok paused abruptly, and wheeled his dragon around for a second look. Yes, he had been right the first time. The ships were leaving the shore and returning to the sea. But they were supposed to be sitting idle, in case the Horde needed them again. Why were they moving now?

Glancing around, Bradok spied a familiar figure on the lead boat. It was Gul'dan, the warlock. Bradok had feared him, as did most of the orcs, but not anymore. He was a dragon rider now. What could he possibly have to be afraid of?

Angling his dragon around, Bradok swooped toward the lead ship. Gul'dan turned toward him as he approached.

"Why are you taking the boats?" Bradok shouted, waving his free arm while his dragon kept pace with the ship. The warlock looked puzzled, and held up both hands in confusion. Bradok coaxed his dragon closer. "You need to turn the boats around! The Horde is in Lordaeron, not across the sea!" he shouted again. Still Gul'dan gestured that he could not hear him. This time Bradok managed to bring his dragon almost on top of the ship, so he was barely ten feet from the warlock. "I said—" Suddenly Gul'dan's hand shot forward, a green ray lancing from it to Bradok's chest. He felt a burst of intense pain, and sensed his lungs tighten and his heart falter, then gasped as both stopped working altogether. The world turned dark with a rush, and Bradok toppled from his saddle, narrowly missing the ship and plummeting toward the waves. His last thought was that at least he'd had a chance to fly.

Gul'dan sneered as he watched the dragon rider's body disappear beneath the water. He'd needed the fool to get close before his magic would work fast enough to prevent retaliation. He'd also worried what the dragon itself might do with its rider dead, and watched warily as the massive red beast reared up, tilting its head back to release a fierce cry, and then beat its wings hard and shot up into the sky. Gul'dan watched long enough to make sure the dragon was not circling around for an attack and then turned back to watching the water flow past the ship's prow.

He didn't see the second figure soaring high above. Torgus had been racing Bradok before his friend had spotted the ships, and had seen everything. Now he wheeled his dragon around and headed back toward Quel'Thalas at top speed. Zuluhed would want to know what had happened, and Torgus suspected he would be flying off to inform the rest of the Horde, and perhaps even Doomhammer himself, as well.

The passes were utterly deserted, as promised, and Doomhammer led his warriors through them at a fast run. He had thought the cloaked stranger would keep his word, and glad to see his guess had been correct, but still this route was dangerous. With such narrow stone passes it would only take a handful of warriors to block their way, and once a few bodies piled up each pass would be too choked to allow passage of any sort. So he hurried his troops along, knowing he would be happier once they had left this cold mountain region far behind.

It took them two days to cross the snow—covered mountains and descend into foothills on the far side. In that time the orcs did not see a single human. Some of the warriors even grumbled that they had missed the chance to kill anyone during their passage, but their chieftains assured them they would get their chance.

On the second day the front ranks of the Horde poured down from the mountains. Doomhammer was leading them as always, and he stopped to admire the scene before him. Beyond the foothills stretched an enormous lake, its waters glistening silvery green in the early light. On the far side rose more mountains, marching north—south on a slight angle. The mountains the orcs had just crossed were similar except they angled east as they rose. These new peaks angled west, and together the two ranges formed a gargantuan V, with the lake filling the center. And on the lake's northern shore was a majestic walled city.

" Capital City." Doomhammer studied it a moment, then raised his hammer high above him with both hands and bellowed a warcry. The warriors of the Horde took up the cry, and soon the hills around them were echoing with their rage and joy and bloodlust. Doomhammer laughed. The city would know he and his people were here, but after that cry they would be quaking in their boots. And the Horde would be upon them before they could recover.

"To the city!" Doomhammer shouted, raising his hammer again. "We will crush it, and with it the heart of the opposition! Onward, warriors! Let us bring the fight to them while our warcry still echoes in their ears!"

And Doomhammer charged down out of the foothills and onto the plain, angling up and across as he focused upon the massive walled city that was his target.

"Sire! Sire, the orcs are coming!"

King Terenas looked up, startled, as Morev the guard commander burst into his throneroom. "What?" He stood, ignoring the panicked cries from the nobles and commoners gathered there to seek audience with him, and beckoned the commander forward. "The orcs? Here?"

"Yes, sire," the man answered. Morev was a seasoned veteran, a warrior Terenas had known since his youth, and it was shocking to see him pale and shaking. "They must have come across the mountains—they are pouring onto the far side of the lake even as we speak!"

Terenas brushed past the commander and strode out of the throne room, moving rapidly down the hall and up a short flight of stairs to the nearest balcony, which stood off his wife's drawing room. Lianne was in there with their daughter, Calia, and her ladies in waiting, and looked up, surprised, as he entered and walked right past her, Morev trailing behind him.

Throwing up the windows beyond, Terenas stepped out onto the balcony—and stopped, stunned. Normally from here he had a breathtaking view of the mountains across the lake. Those were still the same, but the strip of green he usually saw between water and rock was now black and he could see it shifting as he watched, like ground being churned up from beneath. The Horde had indeed arrived.