Wildfire Riders

He'd forgotten the cold of Dragonblight. Wetter, with a mist that could cut into your lungs, a wind that was sharp and would cake your limbs in ice if you stood still. Just enough loose snow on the ground to make it hard to run, just enough to hide the rocks and tree roots. Stormclouds loomed overhead in the evening sky, the occasional thunder voicing the constant reminder: this was Northrend, and it was not a land to be tamed by mere men.

All in all though, there were worse places to be laying an ambush.

They were a few miles from Moa'ki, where the old trails passed by the remains of Indu'le. Old trees had been felled closer to the shore, blocking all the paths save this one, the damage looking as if a rampaging dragon had gone through. N'gor was a Netherdrake, but the effect was similar enough that the orcs hopefully wouldn't be able to tell the difference. The trail was just wide enough for the wagons, with the slopes of the hills looking down on the path. The forest was thick, save for the crumbling huts that the Kalu'ak had left behind. The huts where his men were waiting.

Silent nods met his slow approach, the grim faces of the convicts and the hard gazes of his veterans all reflecting his own concerns. The trio of 'consultants' were off on their own, checking their weapons, or whatever they did to pass the time. With only a guard of twenty five or so orcs, they would have the slight advantage of numbers... but orcs were canny fighters, and they outweighed a normal man by at least five stone. The convicts were a slurry of the dregs of society, and he wasn't sure how many had even seen an orc before. But they'd fight, if it meant they didn't have to go back to the dark cells, so it was more or less even, except for the trio of outsiders. Chryste looked like she knew a thing or two about combat, and Beckett and Beltar were dwarven gunmen. There was something comforting about a dwarf having your back, armed with a large-bore rifle. And Tarquin had faith in his two.

Tarquin Ap'Danwyrith. The Boss of the Riders. A useful man, with connections, and a small group of hard mercenaries under his command. What he'd do with the contents of the crate, only the Light knew, but he'd agreed to the conditions set down by Dravir's superiors. He'd get his mysterious crate, and he'd behave with it, or there would be hell to pay...

His buzzbox warbled quietly, only a brief message.
"They're on the move."

He unslung his heavy axe, moving to where they could all hear him over the wind. "We have the word! Twenty minutes, people. Get into position."


The convicts rose with a grumble, spreading out between the thick bush and ruined huts. His own men were digging into the snow, pulling it over their heavy white-grey cloaks.
He glanced towards the other hired help, and moved to his own outlook over the trail. Time to earn his pay.

Dravir's call echoed over the ridge, strangled and made indecipherable by the wind. An old dwarf sat against one of the nearby pines on the back side of the mound, hands behind his head and wide-brimmed hat turned over his face. He had been that way for some time, enough to allow the dark blue poncho spread under his rump to become damp from the snow. A large dog with a mangy tan coat and milky cataracts waited patiently at his side. Her head raised from his lap at the noise before returning to place. The cold, hard wind blew louder still.

Beckett lowered his hands and pushed back his hat. The dog stood up and growled. Half-buried in white at the dwarf's feet was a double-barreled shotgun. One hand helped him stand up while the other grasped the strap and cast the weapon over his shoulder.

Tied to an adjacent tree was a shivering, coffee brown horse draped with fur pelts. Beckett picked up the poncho and ambled over to the animal, whose whinnying protest to the cold emerged as clouds of wet mist. Snow crunched under his spurred boots as he approached. The horse snorted and threw its head. He dropped the poncho over the saddle, and in return retrieved his bandolier, which he slung over his chest.

His hand then drifted to his belt, where a dark, heavy revolver was holstered. A howling mithril coyote was inlaid on the hand grip. Beckett turned from his horse to the pale horizon, drew the weapon and fired.

Click. An empty chamber. Barely audible over the howling of the wind. He swung out the cylinder and checked. Three shots. Beckett reached for three bullets from his bandolier and pushed them in. Click. Click. Click. After the cylinder was snapped shut, he replaced the pistol in the leather holster with a quick twirl.

The shotgun came next, brought to front and broke open to load more slugs. Several more beautiful, satisfying clicks followed. Once that was done, he shut the gun and threw it back over his shoulder. At his feet, the dog looked up at him questioningly. He nodded and unbuckled his saddlebag, where he found a small cigar box and matchbook. Beckett picked one, a thick maduro, and held it in his teeth while he shielded a lit match in a cupped hand. A sudden gust of wind blew it out. He sighed softly and struck another. This time the flame caught, and he inhaled deeply from the ember, blowing blissfully warm smoke from his nostrils. He looked back down at his dog, who was still expectant.

Beckett motioned with his hand and the pair made their way toward the huts.

Wheels groaned and crunched through the snow and ice, the sound peppered with the crude snarls and grunts of orcish, the stamp of iron-shod boots. The caravan rolled into sight slowly, shaggy talbuks dragging the heavy wagons. Filled with crates and barrels of supplies for the offensive in Icecrown, they made a rough going through the overgrown and ice-crusted path. The guards marched on either side, snapping between themselves.

Ten orcs marched into the clearing... twenty... and then more.

Many more. No mere orcs were these, that guarded the precious supplies. Here were Kor'kron, garbed in the burgundy and black of the Horde elite. Grim faces glared hard at the trail and hills, angry eyes searched amongst the trees and scrub. Heavy axes that most men would struggled to lift were shifted easily from massive clawed hands. Drifting flakes of snow collected on spiked and razor edged armour, meltwater dripped from horned helms.

Outnumbered, outsized, maybe outmatched.

The men lay behind him, buried in the snow, or crouched in the ruined huts. The air was suddenly still and silent, broken only by the drifting sounds of the caravan. He could see them at the corner of his eye, shivering. Their fear was a palpable thing, a stench in the air or a taste in the back of the throat. They had never seen such beasts, never faced the true fear that came in battle. There was, however, a time for everything.

A loud barking of orcish drew his eyes back down the hill. One the massive greenskins was waving his axe in the direction of the huts, snarling and grunting in his crude language. Oh. Well. Guess it was too much to hope they wouldn't be suspicious.

"Rise and address. We charge while they're looking towards the others." He whispered as he raised his weapon from the snow, brushin away the ice from the heavy blades. "Let us take this victory, and you will be free men. Free men to return to your lives!"

The wagons creaked to a halt, the talbuks bleating in irritation. A line of orcs formed up and began a careful march towards the ruins, weapons held in anticipation of a charge forwards. We're all in, then. Time to put our cards on the table.

"Sons of the Alliance! Rise and address! For Glory!"
It sounded appropriate, at least, as he leapt up, and began to run down the hill. Better men had died with worse words on their lips.

The orcs squared against them, a unified shout of defiance and bloodlust. Forty paces.
Thirty.

Twenty.

Please, Light, let us kill all of them before they kill all of us.

Ten.

And let Tarquin's people be as good as he promised.

The small hill was a charnel house, the purity of the snow defiled with gore. There were no wounded to scream and cry; the orcs were coldly dispatched, and their own weapons left little in the way of survivable wounds. Already, the bodies were freezing in the winter air, the orcs left to lie, the humans stacked like old firewood in the backs of the wagons, what was left of them.

Dravir took the headcount, as the survivors made ready to march for the landing point. Tarquin's two, Beckett, and two others. A bloody price indeed. They would take the wagons to the landing point, where they could return to Stormwind quietly. All the wagons, save this one.

This one, with the crates marked in small red symbols, would take a detour with him, along an old trail where three special boxes would be collected by gryphon riders. Men who were expendable, men who would take the long flight to another landing, where a swift, small ship would take them to the Plaguelands. Take them into the hands of the Inquisition, where they would disappear.

A bloody price for a days work.

Three crates. Two for the Inquisiton, one for a Northerner who was too curious for his own damn good. Crates that might hold the key to stopping the next plague. Crates that could save enough lives if they could study what was inside, that it was worth the price they must pay. Something that the Cult of the Damned thought precious.

"Get those wagons turned about and head for the ship, and get the cargo loaded. The sailors will care for our fallen. I will see you back in Stormwind, where your pay awaits."

With a flick of the reins, he started the wagon forward. For a long time, he followed the twisting trails, carefully steering through the proper forks, until he could see the clearing, far ahead. The wheels creaked as he pulled the talbuks to a halt, hopping down from the seat, and kneeling in the snow. The crystal withdrawn from his robes already sparkled and shimmered with waiting energies; they were waiting for him. Voices surged into his head as he cupped the crystal in his palms.
What news, Interrogator?
Success, my Lords. The mission was a success.