The humans that Bolik could see were caught off guard, however, which Bolik had counted on. The orcs that Bolik could see pressed their advantage. Bolik himself started twirling his mace over his head until he found a good target. His father's weapon slammed into the shoulder of a nearby pirate, who fell to the floor, screaming in agony.

Bolik heard a human voice yell a word in the human tongue that he was fairly sure meant "retreat," a guess that was proven accurate as the pirates started to climb the ropes back to their vessel. Bolik saw Kag slice off the leg of one of the retreaters, causing the victim to fall into the Great Sea.

Kag turned to Bolik. "Do we give chase?"

Shaking his head, Bolik said, "No. Let them go." There was little point in trying to chase a ship in this be—damned fog. "Check the cargo."

Nodding acknowledgment, Kag ran off to the hold entry, his footfalls echoing on the deck.

Gazing upward, Bolik said, "Lookout, what about the human ship?"

"They didn't move," Vak said, "until after we sounded fog. Then they moved off. Don't see 'em now."

Bolik's fists tightened, his right hand gripping the handle of his father's mace so hard, he thought it might break. The humans were their allies. If some of Lady Proudmoore's precious soldiers were nearby, why did they not assist when brigands boarded Orgath'ar?

"Sir," Kag said, returning alongside Forx, the warrior in charge of guarding the cargo, "one of the crates was smashed. Another was thrown overboard by one of the humans to cover his retreat."

Forx added, "They sent most o' their men to the hold. We drove 'em back good, we did, sir. They'd'a taken it all otherwise."

"You did well, Forx. And you will be rewarded." Bolik knew his words would have meaning. Two crates lost meant twenty percent of their cargo was useless, which meant a twenty percent reduction in wages. Bolik put a hand on Forx's shoulder. "You shall all receive the same cut you would have if all the cargo came intact—the difference will come out of my own share."

Kag's eyes grew wide. "You honor us all, Captain."

"Not at all—you defended my ship. You won't be penalized for that."

Forx smiled. "I'll inform your warriors, sir."

Bolik turned to Kag as Forx went off. "Assess damage, dump any human bodies into the sea, and put us back on course." He took a breath, then blew it out through his tusks. "And when we return, I want a messenger found. Thrall must be informed of this right away."

Nodding, Kag said, "Yes, Captain."

Staring into the fog that had allowed the pirates to get so close for their attack, Bolik thought back on Rabin's words, and decided that no use they could get from fog would be worth this…

Lady Jaina Proudmoore stood atop the butte on Razor Hill, gazing out over the land where she helped form the most unlikely alliance in the history of the world.

Razor Hill was orc territory, of course, but Jaina and Thrall had agreed that, given her abilities, it was best for their meetings to happen on orc land, where Thrall generally was. For Jaina's part, her magic allowed her to go wherever she wished in an instant.

In truth, when the summons had come from Thrall, it had come as a relief. Jaina's entire adult life, it seemed, consisted of going from one crisis to another. She had fought demons and orcs and warlords, and had the fate of the world in her small hands more than once.

She once was the lover of Arthas, when he was a noble warrior, but he had been corrupted, was now the Lich King of the Scourge, the cruelest warlord in a world that had seen its fair share of them. Some day, she knew, she would have to face him in battle. Medivh, the Sargeras—cursed wizard who had seemingly doomed humanity by letting demons and orcs overrun this world, became a staunch ally who convinced Jaina and Thrall to unite their people with the night elves against the Burning Legion.

After that, when the humans built Theramore as their new home on Kalimdor, Jaina had thought that things would calm down. But things were never calm when one ruled, even in times of peace, and she found that the day—to—day running of Theramore almost made her long for the days when she was fighting for her life.

Almost, but not quite. In truth, she had few regrets—but she also grabbed the opportunity for a respite like a desert traveler grabbing a water flask.

Standing at one edge of the butte, she looked far down on the small orc village at the base of the hills. Well—defended huts dotted the harsh brown landscape. Even in times of peace, the orcs made sure their homes would not be taken. A few orcs walked between the huts, greeting each other, some pausing to speak. Jaina couldn't help but smile at such quotidian simplicity.

Then she heard the low, steady rumble that heralded the arrival of Thrall's airship. Turning around, she saw the massive dirigible approach. As it grew closer, she saw that only Thrall stood in the undercarriage that was carried along beneath the massive hot—air—filled canvas that propelled the machine through the air. Said canvas was decorated with a variety of symbols, some of which Jaina recognized as pictographs from an old version of the orc language. One, she knew, was the symbol of Thrall's family, the Frostwolf clan. That was the main thing that differentiated orc airships from the ones Jaina's people used—the airships that Theramore had rented from the goblins were more nondescript affairs. Jaina wondered if the orcs' way might not be better—to imbue their non—living transports with personalities akin to that of living mounts.

In the past, when they'd met on the butte, Thrall had at least brought a guard or two. That he was traveling alone now concerned Jaina greatly.

As the airship approached, Thrall pulled some levers, and the dirigible slowed, finally coming to a hover over the butte. Pulling one final lever, Thrall lowered a rope ladder and climbed down. Like most orcs, Thrall had green skin and black hair, the latter braided and draped over his shoulders. The black plate armor with bronze trim he wore belonged to Orgrim Doomhammer, Thrall's mentor and the man for whom Durotar's capital city had been named. Strapped to his back was Orgrim's weapon, from which he derived his last name: the Doomhammer, a two—handed weapon that Jaina had seen Thrall use in battle. The blood of many a demon had been shed with that great hammer.

What stood out about Thrall most, though, were his blue eyes, a color rarely found in orcs. They bespoke both his intelligence and his kindness.

Three years ago, while both Theramore and the cities of Durotar were being built, Jaina had given Thrall a magical talisman: a small stone carved in the shape of one of the old Tirisfalen runes. Jaina had its twin in her own possession. Thrall needed only to hold it and think of her, and Jaina's talisman would glow; the reverse also held true. If they wished to meet in secret, to discuss issues that affected one or the other, or both, of their people away from the politics of their positions as leaders—or if they simply wished to talk as old friends and comrades—all they had to do was activate the talisman. Jaina would then teleport to the butte, and Thrall would come by airship, since the butte was inaccessible any other way.

"It is good to see you, my friend," Jaina said with a warm smile. And she meant it. In all her life, she'd known no one as honorable and dependable as the orc. Once, she would have numbered her father and Arthas among those. But Admiral Proudmoore insisted on attacking the orcs at Kalimdor, refusing to believe his own daughter when she said that the orcs were as much victims of the Burning Legion as humans were, and were not evil. Like so many people Jaina had known, Admiral Proudmoore was unable to accept that the world was different from the way it was when he was younger, and fought against any alteration to it. That included the presence of orcs, and Jaina had been put in the terrible position of betraying her own father to Thrall's people in the hope of stopping the bloodshed.