“Varian Wrynn,” she repeated, recalling so much about the king’s troubled past in that name. He had been a slave, a gladiator, a man with no memory of his true self. He had watched his kingdom fall and fought to take it back from none other than what had turned out to be the daughter of Deathwing in human guise.
And during those terrible times, when Varian had lost his name and had been forced to fight for his life nearly every day for the pleasure of spectators, he had been given another name by those in attendance, a uniquely important name.
He had been—and still was by many—called Lo’Gosh.
Lo’Gosh . . . another name for the ghost wolf, Goldrinn.
The two cloaked travelers disembarked from the small boat. That they were night elves like the majority of the inhabitants of Rut’theran Village was evidenced in their build and their ears, which shoved back the fabric of their deep hoods. Their faces remained in shadow.
The port village was humble by night elf standards but exceedingly fresh in appearance, for all the buildings were new. It was actually the second settlement by the name, the first destroyed by the sea during the Cataclysm. The second most significant characteristic of the port other than its three docks was the hippogryph breeding area, where eggs of the astonishing winged creatures who acted as aerial transport for the night elves were meticulously cared for and the young were raised.
The most significant aspect of the island was something the pair of travelers had been viewing for quite some time. In fact, they had seen it from miles away on the mainland . . . just as anyone else in this region would have.
Teldrassil was the name given for the island, but only as an afterthought. The island was only an extension of the true Teldrassil . . . a titanic tree filling most of the land and rising so high, the top vanished in the clouds. Its branches were so vast that they dwarfed some kingdoms. The thick crown could have housed an entire civilization—and did.
Indeed, Teldrassil was known as the second World Tree. The first, ancient Nordrassil, still lived, but had yet to recover from the violence of the Third War—again, against the Burning Legion—only a few years prior. While Nordrassil had provided immortality, good health, protection from the misuses of the Well of Eternity’s magic, and an open path to the Emerald Dream, the second World Tree had served mainly as the new home for the night elf race. Even then Teldrassil had already had its share of troubles. The tree had been tainted by the evil of the Nightmare Lord through his puppet, the archdruid Fandral Staghelm. That taint had spread to the flora and fauna upon Teldrassil, and only recently had the tree been cleansed.
But as inspiring as the vast tree was to all who saw it, the newcomers almost appeared oblivious to its presence now. The taller of the traveling pair—male, with long, silver hair spilling out from his hood—paused to eye with much interest the adult hippogryphs. The slighter and clearly female figure at his side coughed harshly and teetered against her companion. The male quickly turned his attention from the avian creatures and tightened his hold on her.
“The portal,” he murmured. “It will be nearby and quicker. Just hold on . . . we are almost there. Hold on . . . please!”
The female’s hood briefly bobbed up and down. “I will . . . do my best . . . my husband. . . .”
Her reply was very weak, and by the stiffening of his form the male showed his grave concern for his mate. Guiding her forward, he searched for what neither had ever seen but should have been readily identifiable.
A Sentinel officer noticed the pair. Her gaze swept over the concealing cloaks. Frowning, her glaive gripped at the ready, she confronted them.
“Welcome, visitors,” she said. “May I ask from where you come?”
The male looked at her, his face briefly becoming visible.
The Sentinel’s words trailed off, and her face flushed with shock. “You . . .”
Without a word, the male led his mate past the stunned officer. As he did, that which he sought became visible through the buildings and the crowd.
“The portal . . . ,” he murmured.
A stone path followed a gentle slope up to Teldrassil. At the base of the tree loomed a tall portal, a huge, shimmering mark in Darnassian script emanating from its side. Yet, even as high as it stood, the magical entry was dwarfed by some of the great roots arcing down from Teldrassil.
The portal was a magical, direct link to the city far, far above. Two Sentinels were the only evident guards, but the male traveler knew that there were others hidden near and, in addition, safety measures built into and around the structure.
Undaunted, he led his mate toward the portal. The Sentinels eyed him suspiciously.
From behind the travelers came the officer’s voice. “Let them pass unhindered.”
The guards did not question the command. The male traveler did not waste time turning to thank the officer; all that mattered was getting his mate to Darnassus . . . to help.
“Watch your footing,” he whispered to her.
She managed a nod. They had succeeded in making it to the portal itself. His hopes rose. Almost there!
A fit of coughing overtook her. It became so brutal that he lost his grip on her. She fell to her knees, her hooded face nearly to the stone.
He quickly retrieved her, but as he helped her straighten, the soft patter of liquid caught his ear.
A small pool of blood decorated the area near where her face had hovered.
“Not again . . .”
Her hand, which held his, suddenly squeezed with the incredible strength of the truly fearful. “Husband—”
She collapsed in his arms.
The guards moved to assist, but he had no time for them. They might even suggest that he wait while they check on her condition. But in his harried thoughts, any second meant disaster . . . loss. . . .
His only hope was reaching the high priestess.
Gripping his slumped mate, the male lunged into the portal.
2
INCURSION
Moving against the slight breeze passing through the forest, the long, thick branches from the nearby trees stretched down. The leafy appendages moved with utmost purpose toward the bearded figure they surrounded. He stared up at the oncoming branches and did nothing . . . but smile.
Malfurion Stormrage stood silent as leaves from the first branches caressed his face. Even among those of his calling, he was unique. At first, it appeared that he was adorned with the marks of the great animals whose shapes those most versed in his calling could summon. Only closer inspection revealed that some of these attributes were a part of him, the results of his ties to Azeroth and the many years his spirit had spent in the Emerald Dream. While his dreamform had become more and more attuned to that other realm, his sleeping body—still bound to his spirit—had begun to take on elements of these powerful creatures. Thus, the edges of his arms grew into the expansive gray wings of the storm crow. The nightsaber, its bond especially close to those of Malfurion’s race, was marked by what were not boots but the archdruid’s very feet. They now mimicked the look of the feline’s mighty paws. In addition to all this, his kilt bore in front as decoration the curved teeth of the nightsaber, and his hands were clad in gloves ending in the claws of the bear.
One mark that had nothing to do with beasts and perhaps more with Malfurion in particular was the blue bolts of lightning that crossed his torso from shoulder to opposing side of the waist. Smaller, complementing bolts darted from his elbow down his forearm. Stormrage was not merely the archdruid’s surname; it was also a hint of the tremendous power at his command, power that he sought to use only when all other efforts failed.
The ends of the branches shifted his long green hair, but artfully avoided that which most made the proud-featured night elf stand out from his brethren. Magnificent antlers, more than a good two feet in length, sprouted from his forehead. They were a sign of his deep ties to Azeroth and his shan’do—his honored teacher—the demigod Cenarius, and also represented the form of the
stag.
Some of the stronger branches shifted under his arms. Then, as gently as a parent lifting an infant, the branches took Malfurion up among the trees.
The archdruid opened his mind and touched the heart of Teldrassil. Malfurion studied its health and saw that there was no apparent taint left from the sinister grafting attached by the mad archdruid Fandral Staghelm. Malfurion gave thanks for that; he had been against the creation of the second World Tree, but it had become an integral part of night elf existence. Yet, that it had become so had been the opposite intention of Fandral, who had first proposed the tree in Malfurion’s absence. To the other archdruid, Teldrassil had been only a means to a monstrous end, which, thankfully, had been averted.
Despite the lack of any noticeable taint, Malfurion swore to keep monitoring the tree. There was still a pocket of the Nightmare remaining in the Emerald Dream, and as long as any trace of that darkness existed, renewed corruption threatened Teldrassil and, thus, the night elf race.
Still, satisfied as to the World Tree’s present condition, Malfurion took a moment to survey his surroundings. A moonwell—one of the sacred founts of water known for their mystical properties—stood not all that far from the archdruid. He had chosen the Oracle Glade northeast of the city for what his senses indicated was its unique tie to the gargantuan tree in which it was nestled. Here, the archdruid felt he could best meditate and, using his spirit—or dreamform—reach out to the Emerald Dream.
The druids still traveled with their dreamforms to the other realm, but did so with some new precautions. Malfurion had not taken long to return to that place, despite having been trapped there for years by the Nightmare Lord. He did not consider himself courageous for having made the choice; the archdruid hoped to further study the Emerald Dream for any changes he might have missed earlier . . . and also use this particular journey to clear his mind of certain thoughts.
As if to mock his hopes, a sharp twinge suddenly went through him. It was not the first he had felt of late, nor did he think it would be the last.
Mortality was beginning to catch up with him.
The archdruid had witnessed the aging of comrades belonging to other races, but to experience it was admittedly not so simple a thing, even if his race was still much longer-lived than humans or dwarves. Malfurion fought down a brief moment of petulance, of thinking that he was not supposed to grow old.
The twinge had disrupted his thoughts. Trying to restore his calm, Malfurion focused deep into Teldrassil’s being. He felt his center calming. Seeking Teldrassil’s touch to help him reach the point where he could separate his dreamform from his body had proven correct after all. His body now lay nestled in the boughs, protected by the trees that were in their way an extension of the larger one upon which they grew.
Malfurion’s dreamform rose above his still body. Ghostly and emerald in shading, it hovered for a moment—
Malfurion!
As if thrust by a terrible wind, the archdruid’s dreamform flew back into his mortal shell. He knew who reached out to him, for she had a unique link to him.
Tyrande? the archdruid immediately responded. At an unspoken request by Malfurion, the branches were already lowering him to the ground. Tyrande! What is it?
Too much to be said now! Please come!
The urgency in her tone was undeniable. The moment his feet touched the ground, Malfurion hurried on. But after a few steps he found the pace too slow. Concentrating, the archdruid leaned forward.
His bones made crackling sounds as they shifted, and his skin rippled and sprouted fur. The archdruid’s face extended, the nose and mouth becoming part of a wide muzzle adorned with long whiskers. Malfurion’s teeth grew and his eyes narrowed. His shape transformed, becoming a huge, dark cat akin to one of the saber-toothed felines the night elves used for mounts. Malfurion’s pace increased tenfold and more.
The sleek cat darted out of the glade. The short distance to Darnassus passed swiftly. Sentinels who saw him approaching wisely stepped aside, aware of who it was rushing to the city in such a form. The archdruid’s cat shape was a recognizable thing to the defenders of the city, who had witnessed its power in battle.
Much of the city was divided into what were called “terraces,” where elements of night elf civilization concentrated. The Warrior’s Terrace was already behind him, and that of the Craftsmen was already to his right. Malfurion scarcely noticed either, just as he paid little mind to the elegant and artistically formed gardens and lake that were the center of Darnassus. His focus was on the shining edifice to the south, the Temple of the Moon.
But something did suddenly intrude on his concentration, an unsettling gathering of night elves. Malfurion smelled their anxiety, and that stirred his other feline emotions. He bared his great saberlike teeth and dug harder at the ground with his sharp claws as he turned to find out what was the cause.
Even before he came to a halt, the archdruid had resumed his true form. The night elves nearest had already scattered from the cat’s path, and now they and others who had noticed Malfurion bowed in respect to the august figure.
However, Malfurion paid them no mind, for he now knew what had so caught the throng’s attention . . . and why from them there had radiated such a high level of anxiety.
The hooded figure stumbled toward the same destination in which the archdruid had been heading, but his efforts were slowed incredibly by the terrible burden in his arms. The shape under the other travel cloak was clearly female and also a night elf.
Malfurion could not make out the male’s visage, but the hood had slipped from the female’s. The slack mouth was a grim enough sign.
A Sentinel tried to give aid to the female’s companion, but the male shook the guard off. The Sentinel retreated with an odd respect in both her expression and stance.
The same Sentinel glanced beyond the stricken figure to Malfurion. With some relief, she started, “Archdruid! Praise Elune—”
“‘Archdruid’?” The hooded male gasped out the word, as if it meant all the world to him.
A sudden shock ran through Malfurion. He could not place the voice, but, even though it was clearly changed by stress and other factors, it was one he should have known very well.
Gingerly adjusting his precious burden, the male shifted enough to peer over his shoulder at Malfurion.
The agony that gripped the male had made some distinct changes in the face. However, the archdruid still immediately recognized the night elf before him even though it had been centuries since the latter had last been among their kind. Malfurion could scarcely believe his eyes; he had gradually come to the conclusion that accident or some other violent demise had taken the hooded figure long ago.
The name escaped as a whisper of disbelief. “Jarod Shadowsong . . .”
Haldrissa Woodshaper had been a Sentinel since nearly the creation of that army. Although she had been born some centuries before its general, Shandris, Haldrissa had recognized the skills in her leader and eagerly learned. She had thus risen up in the ranks, well earning her position as a commander.
Narrow of face and with a persistently wrinkled brow—as if she were always deep in thought—Haldrissa had just prior to the Cataclysm been promoted to overseeing night elf forces in Ashenvale. Although far from Teldrassil and Darnassus, Ashenvale, located in the northern half of the continent of Kalimdor and stretching across much of its width, was not only sacred to her people but of significance to the preservation of their civilization. The night elves and their allies carefully harvested only select areas of the vast forests, making certain not to disturb nature any more than necessary.
Haldrissa squinted as she peered into the forest ahead of her party. Like the others, she rode astride one of the muscular cats called nightsabers after their long, curved fangs. Both night elves and nightsabers were, as their names suggested, nocturnal creatures, but circumstance more and more demanded that they move about during the day too. Most of the other races with which they dealt were diurna
l, day dwellers, which did not preclude their being active at night . . . which presented her with the most complicated and potentially deadly aspect of her role here.
There had been no sign of nearby activity by the Horde, but Haldrissa knew better than to trust the orcs and their allies to stay in the eastern side. Bad enough that they had a foothold in Ashenvale at all.
“What do you see, Xanon?” she asked of the male night elf to her left. He was not the most senior of her officers, but he was known for his sharp eyes, even among the Sentinels. “Anything amiss?”
Xanon leaned forward a moment, then replied, “All clear to me, Commander.”
No one else indicated otherwise. Haldrissa signaled the party to move on. The commander led a contingent of some fifty night elves on the way to inspect one of the foremost posts. Haldrissa made it a point to do regular inspections herself; nothing kept post commanders on their toes better than the knowledge that she would be checking on them.
The post was only another hour’s ride. The reason for the halt had been what thus far appeared to be a lapse on the part of the officer in charge. Haldrissa insisted that guards be set up to face not only the directions from which the Horde could be expected to attack, but also those from which it could not. If Haldrissa could imagine successfully sneaking past a post and either attacking it from behind or moving on to attack locations deeper within night elf territory, then surely the orcs’ new warchief could.
A short distance later, Haldrissa turned to Denea, her second-in-command. “I want two scouts to ride to the post, then report back . . . without being seen.”
Denea summoned the riders needed, then sent them off. Haldrissa watched the pair first become two blurs, then vanish into the distance. She hid a moment of frustration; her vision was not as sharp as it had been only a few months before. In fact, it seemed to have worsened in the past few days.
World of Warcraft: Wolfheart Page 3
