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“Come here, you wee bastard …”
Ringo reeled in carefully. His fishing rod was iron and the line was a special one made of eternium, but if he pulled too roughly, the hook would simply tear its way out of the fish’s mouth.
“And … got ya!”
Grinning, he removed the hook from the mouth of the speckled tastyfish, laying it on the fourth pile on the oilskin cloth he’d laid on the sandy Stranglethorn beach.
“That’s 40 … wait a second …”
“Hoist the mainsail! All hands on deck, by thunder!” Ringo Flinthammer roared, one hand on the rigging, a foot on a spar yard and the rest of him dangling 20 feet above the pitching deck. “We sail for Undermine and plunder!”
His crew of dwarves, men, gnomes and even an elf or two roared with delight.
“Arrrr! Arrr! Arrr!”
This was the life: Kul Tiras was behind them and the green mountains of the Great Sea were before them. Ringo was captain of the Sea Harpy, a privateer with a letter of marque from the King of Ironforge. Nominally, they were to take on the goblin Venture Company and “rogue” elements of the Horde, but in reality, anyone not flying a flag of the Alliance was fair game as far as Ringo and his shipmates were concerned.
Ringo Flinthammer rode up on his ram, its hooves kicking up well-packed snow as he galloped through the main square of Dun Baldar. Behind him, on a tether, was another ram, with matted fur and wild eyes.
The yellow-haired Stormpike stable mistress looked up as she approached, putting down her slate and chalk. She was checking off supplies for the effort; the sounds of the battle with the Horde to the south echoed across Alterac Valley.
“Want me to take that ram for ye?”
“Aye, please. This thing stinks,” Ringo said, handing over the rawhide tether. “Reeks like a bucket of ass juice.”
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This was supposed to be a happy occasion.
The Horde and the Alliance, together, dancing around the ribbon pole, took some getting used to, but there it was. The war against the Qiraji had brought back memories of the Battle of Mount Hyjal when the Alliance and Horde first worked together and the Midsummer Fire Festival might have been the first holiday in a long time that had passed without bloodshed.
And then the Scourge had crashed the party.
Randis crouched down in the reeds surrounding Loch Modan. Ringo had to give him credit: The orphan from Stormwind had never seen a swamp before, much less been in one up to his waist, but even after the stern warning about leeches and loch frenzies, the boy hadn’t hesitated to wade into the makeshift blind Ringo had chosen. He was determined to throw himself into experiencing life beyond the orphanage walls this Children’s Week.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about this back at the orphanage,” the boy said.
“Ach, don’t worry about it, lad,” Ringo said, beard spreading out in the loch water around him like a white lily pad. “A boy who’s been through what you went through in the last war can handle the grisly facts of life.”
They waited in silence for a while, the air growing quiet except for the sound of cicadas and bullfrogs and the occasional leap of a fish on the loch.
And then they heard it.