“Commander Flinthammer! Commander Flinthammer, wake up!”
Slapping, not particularly gentle.
Durkon Flinthammer caught the hand before it could slap him again. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, only to find the whole world tilting crazily around him and a pain in his head that felt like an axe blade lodged there. He hadn’t touched alcohol in years — he always believed in maximum combat readiness — but this felt like the worst hangover he could remember.
“I was on guard,” Durkon began to recall. “In the Stockades. Wait, did they free the prisoner?”
“No,” the soldier said. It was dark, and hard to see, but she appeared to be dressed in a 7th Legion uniform. “He stayed in his cell, even though they opened it during the escape. They helped the Zandalari prisoners escape instead.”
“Strange,” Durkon said, putting a hand on the soldier’s shoulder and pulling himself to his feet. He wanted to vomit.
“Careful, sir. You were gravely injured during the battle, but we’ve got to move. It’s not safe for us to remain here.”
“Why not?” Spots danced in front of his eyes as Durkon turned his head to survey the scene. They were outside, under an archway along one of Stormwind’s canals. “And what’s that smell?”
“Stormwind, sir.” The soldier helped Durkon turn to face the city. “The Horde set fire to the city to cover their escape. Jaina Proudmoore and other mages are working to put out the fires. I’ll explain more on the ship.”
“Ship?” Durkon groaned. “Are we going somewhere?”
“We’ve got immediate orders to ship out, Commander Flinthammer. We’re going to take the fight to the Horde in Zandalar.”