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of waves and wind.
    “Again!” Garrosh yelled, racing forward to the bow, quivering like an eager wolf on the hunt as they drew yet closer to the ship.
    The mast was now broken on the Alliance vessel, but Cairne could make out a figure on the deck frantically waving the white flag of surrender. If Garrosh noticed it, he gave no sign. As soon as
Mannoroth’s Bones
was close enough, he let out a howl and leaped to the enemy vessel, a weapon in each hand, and began to attack the humans.
    Cairne turned away, sickened. Legally Garrosh was right, but by any other reckoning, morally or spiritually, what he was doing was wrong. Horribly wrong, and Cairne darkly wondered how the spirits would exact their revenge upon the Horde, or Garrosh, or perhaps even him, Cairne Bloodhoof, for standing by and permitting it to happen.
    It was over quickly, too quickly, as far as the orcs were concerned. Garrosh, somewhat to Cairne’s surprise, actually shouted to his troops to “Hold!” after only a few moments. The tauren pricked his long ears up and moved close, straining to see and hear what Garrosh would do next.
    “Bring me the captain!” Garrosh demanded. A short while later, a troll, holding a human male tightly by both arms, hurried over and tossed the hapless captain to the deck.
    Garrosh prodded the figure with a foot. “You are in Horde waters, Alliance dog.”
    The man, sinewy, tall for his race, and tanned, with short-cropped black hair and a neatly trimmed beard, simply stared up at the orc. “There is a treaty—”
    “Which does not apply to incursions into our territory. That is obviously an act of aggression!”
    “You saw what shape we were in,” the captain replied, disbelief in his voice. “A rabbit wouldn’t have found us aggressive!”
    It was the wrong thing to say, and Garrosh kicked him in the ribs. Cairne could hear one or two of them break. The man grunted and his face went pale, then flushed.
    “You are in Horde waters,” Garrosh repeated. “Whatever state your ship was in, I am well within my rights for everything I do here. Do you know who I am?”
    The man shook his head.
    “I am Garrosh Hellscream, son of the great Horde hero Grom Hellscream!” The captain’s eyes widened, and he paled again. Clearly he did indeed recognize the name—if not the first, then surely the surname. Grom Hellscream was legend in the Alliance as well as the Horde.
    “I have defeated my enemies and claimed your vessel for the Horde, and you as prisoners of war. The question is, what should I do with you now? I could set fire to your ship and let you burn,” he mused, rubbing his chin. “Or simply leave. It has not escaped my notice that you have no skiffs. There are sharks and orcas in these waters, and I am certain they love the taste of Alliance flesh almost as much as my troll warriors do.”
    The captain swallowed hard, no doubt keenly aware that it was a troll who had brought him before Garrosh and was now standing beside him. The troll cackled and licked his lips exaggeratedly. Cairne and Garrosh both knew the Darkspear trolls were not cannibals, but clearly the captain didn’t.
    “My friend Cairne Bloodhoof there,” Garrosh continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder without turning to actually look at Cairne, “urged me to be merciful. And do you know, I think he might be right.”
    The captain’s eyes darted to Cairne. The old bull was certain that he himself looked almost as surprised as the human. What was Garrosh doing? He had swarmed the ship, along with his men, slaying all but a handful of the crew. And he was talking about
mercy
?
    “Today, Captain, I have shown you the mighty arm of the Horde, and I also show you its mercy. There are eleven of you who seem to have survived the … storm.” He smiled a little. “We will give you two skiffs, along with some of our own precious rations. That, and luck, should be enough to see you to safety. And when you reach home, tell them what has happened