“I had heard rumors,” Jarod went on, straightening. “It is all true, then. We are mortal, are we not?” After Malfurion nodded, the former guard captain grunted. “Meaning no offense, but I think that a good thing, even with this happening.” His hands curled into fists as he looked at Shalasyr. “We were so damned complacent about our great station in the world and our endless, jaded lives, and that is why the Legion nearly slaughtered us all.”
A different darkness spread across his weathered face, one that Tyrande and her mate recalled from the far past. Malfurion quickly stepped over to Jarod and deftly guided him from Shalasyr. “You are exhausted. You need food and drink, also—”
“How can I sleep or eat?”
“Shalasyr would want you to take care of yourself,” Tyrande added from Jarod’s other side. “And I promise you that I will spare no effort for her.”
“I should stay—”
The archdruid shook his head. “No. Give yourself the time you need to be able to better honor her. I know where to find some healthy fare and perhaps how to bring some calm to your heart. Once you have recuperated, you can return and help oversee the final arrangements.”
To his relief, Jarod acquiesced. However, he looked back at his mate one last time. “I would like a moment alone with her, if I may. . . .”
“Of course.”
They watched him kneel beside Shalasyr once more. Jarod took her hands in his, leaned close, and whispered. Malfurion and Tyrande stepped out of the chamber. There they took the opportunity to briefly discuss another matter.
“Varian is coming to the summit,” Tyrande quietly informed her husband. “So Shandris’s contacts say. It worries me, though, that we still have no official confirmation from Stormwind.”
“We both know that if Shandris trusts her information, it is generally true. Good. One way or another, the news will filter to the other kingdoms. If Stormwind is attending, the remaining holdouts will rush to join.” He frowned. “As to whether he is coming to ensure the success of the summit or to condemn it . . . we will have to wait and see.”
“If we do not hear official word from Stormwind before he arrives, it may be the latter.”
“Unfortunately, too true.” Malfurion’s frown deepened. “But you could have told me all this when you initially contacted me.”
“There is more.” She described Elune’s vision and what it had revealed.
He brooded over the revelation for a breath or two, then asked, “You have faith you could not be mistaken?”
“The Mother Moon made it abundantly clear.”
“It makes sense in great part, and yet not in other ways.” He brooded for a moment. “Leave this matter to me. I will see that somehow things come together . . . if it is indeed Varian Wrynn on whom the Alliance’s future most depends.”
Tyrande accepted his decision to take control of that situation with a nod. Then, also eyeing Jarod, she continued, “We have another, more personal situation here . . . perhaps two. Jarod left behind some unfinished relationships of significance.”
“Those will have to come to their proper conclusions without our efforts. There is so much more at stake. I welcome Jarod back . . . but his life is his own to master, in the long run.”
They glanced back into the chamber. At that moment the newly returned Jarod rose again. Malfurion and Tyrande heard him exhale deeply as he gave his Shalasyr one last kiss.
“Let us hope Shandris and his sister see it that way,” the high priestess wryly returned under her breath as they moved to attend to their old friend. “Though I doubt they will.”
Most night elves of military status utilized the training areas in the Warrior’s Terrace to hone their skills. There they had the use of target ranges and dueling grounds. The night elves were respected by both their allies and enemies as strong and skilled fighters, especially General Shandris Feathermoon’s Sentinels.
But Maiev Shadowsong was no Sentinel and considered herself far more skilled and dedicated than any of them, including their commander. Indeed, in her opinion the Sentinels knew nothing about dedication . . . and sacrifice.
Her face was narrower than many night elves’, and weathered. Scars marked her face—scars from both battle and torture. She had been warrior, jailor, prisoner, executioner. Her eyes held a fatalistic gleam.
Her armor was more elaborate than that of a Sentinel, with a thick breastplate, heavy shoulderguards, and high metal boots, all of a dark silver-gray bordered by a golden bronze. Wicked gauntlets ending in claws covered both hands, and even the draping forest-green cloak was lined with sharp blades that were not merely for show. A face-obscuring helm lay to the side of where she trained, with it a jagged, round blade known as an umbra crescent.
There had been a title for what she had once been—what she still considered herself—though some no longer saw purpose in it. Those were the same people who did not sufficiently understand the dangers facing the night elf race, dangers against which the Sentinels were poorly equipped both physically and mentally. Fortunately, Maiev had found others who still saw as she did and so had begun recruiting and training the best of those to rebuild the elite force wiped out by Malfurion’s brother.
The elite force known as the Watchers.
For some ten millennia, Maiev had been a Watcher. Their leader—the warden, in fact. The Watchers, originally volunteers from the ranks of the Sisters of Elune and later also chosen from those outside the temple, had been charged with the daunting task of acting as jailors for the traitor Illidan Stormrage and, later, other monstrous criminals from not just the night elves but other races as well. As leader, Maiev had made Illidan her utmost priority . . . and utmost focus.
No, in Maiev’s view, the Watchers had been a far more dedicated force than even the Sentinels.
Maiev practiced her skills, not in the Warrior’s Terrace, but out in the forest beyond. There, she could unleash the energy ever pent-up inside her. This day she practiced with smaller blades—daggers—striking out at preselected targets while bounding through the area. One after another, the daggers sank deep into the centers of their targets, no matter at what angle Maiev threw them.
It was not by skill alone that her aim was so perfect, though. Incentive pushed her as much. In her mind, each target bore the visage of a male night elf whose eyes were covered by cloth, as if he were blind. Sometimes the details of the face changed, but it was ever recognizable in her thoughts. She knew that face better than her own, having stared at it so much. In fact, her current exercise was also a futile attempt to eradicate the memory.
But still she tried, slaying him again and again. That she had done so in truth did not matter. Whether as a cunning prisoner in the barrows or a demon seeking power over the world, Illidan Stormrage would forever be burned into Maiev’s very soul.
Drawing the last dagger, Maiev lunged under a branch. Alighting onto a lower one, she brought her hand back for throwing, then spun around to face the intruder she had felt coming up behind her. At the same time Maiev tossed the dagger up, catching it by the hilt as it came down.
The tip ended up touching the throat of another female. To her credit, the newcomer flinched only slightly. Maiev nodded her approval; Neva was her best student.
“Forgive this interruption,” Neva said calmly, eyes never going to the hand that held the dagger under her chin. “I would not have disobeyed your command if it were not important.”
Maiev removed the dagger. “I trust your judgment. You know me better than anyone.”
This straightforward comment elicited a brief but odd look from Neva.
Maiev’s brow arched. “Why are you here?”
“I was crossing through from the Temple Gardens when I saw the gathering. The archdruid Malfurion Stormrage was there.”
“Was he?” Maiev’s memories coursed back to much younger days, when she had been a senior priestess of Elune. There again she saw Illidan Stormrage, though as a younger, handsome, but haughty figure, next to hi
s twin brother, the future archdruid.
“Yes . . . the archdruid had evidently arrived just a moment before I had. He stood only a few feet from where I did. He was staring at a male in a travel cloak. The male was carrying another, a female. She looked to be dying. . . .”
“Get to the point.”
The other female gave a slight nod. “The archdruid recognized the male. He whispered the name, which I was just barely able to hear.” Neva hesitated, then concluded, “It was your brother’s name.”
Maiev revealed no reaction. She simply stood there as still as a statue. After several seconds, she finally blinked; then, with deft ease, she spun and threw the blade at the final target. The strike was perfect.
“Jarod . . . ,” Maiev muttered.
“I am not mistaken, Warden.”
“I did not think you were. So my brother has come back.”
Neva bowed her head. “I had thought him long dead.”
“We were both mistaken, then.” Maiev retrieved her helmet. “He will be in or near the temple—probably in it.”
“You are going to visit him?”
“Not at the moment. I need to think—” Maiev suddenly paused. Her eyes swept over the trees to the region to her right. Neva followed her gaze but saw nothing.
“Never mind,” Maiev ordered her companion as the senior Watcher put the helmet on. “Let us go. I must see my dear long-lost sibling.”
“But you said you were not going to visit—”
Jarod’s sister looked at her companion with narrowed eyes. “I said I must see him.”
Neva nodded her understanding.
Without another word, Maiev bounded down through the branches toward Darnassus. The younger night elf leapt after. Despite millennia separating their ages, Neva found herself hard-pressed to keep up with her instructor.
He watched the night elves leap gracefully out of sight, moving with an inborn skill that few other races could match but which made him sniff in contempt. He had not meant to cross their path, but perhaps it had been for the best. While the news of which they had spoken did not outwardly seem of import, anything that in the least concerned Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage would be of interest to his own master. Information was always valuable, especially in these times.
With a slight growl, the figure leapt in the opposite direction. He moved through the foliage with as much skill and grace as the slimmer but taller night elves had. Perhaps more, even.
After all, they did not have long, long claws with which to better grasp a tree branch . . . or rend a foe, when necessary.
4
THE MESSAGE FROM ASHENVALE
Haldrissa had returned to her headquarters after her inspection of the outposts with more than the loss of her eye causing her frustration. While all of the outposts had proven to be in top condition, some of the activity reports that she had received from the officers in charge did not settle well with her. Where in several places there should have been some nominal orc activity, nearly all had reported nothing whatsoever. And where there had generally been no activity, odd little occurrences—though nothing as drastic as what she and her retinue had encountered—had taken place. Reports of a few footprints here, a broken arrow with Horde markings found there, a vanishing of game in another location . . . by themselves they were hardly anything to think about, but, when all were added together, they hinted at some growing trouble.
The commander sat cross-legged on a woven grass mat in her quarters. To her right, a toppled mug and a small, drying pool of water marked an earlier, failed attempt to adjust to perception problems due to her impaired vision. Haldrissa was doing better now, but still there were moments when her fingers had to hesitate before she was certain she was reaching for a parchment correctly.
She stared at the array of reports from the various outposts, her remaining eye darting from one to the next. However, as Haldrissa looked at one to her farthest left, she suddenly realized that Denea stood waiting there.
Just for a brief moment Haldrissa noted what she knew to be impatience on her second’s part. That emotion quickly melted away, leaving only the steady expression of a Sentinel lieutenant.
How long Denea had been waiting, Haldrissa could not say. The commander tried not to think of what would have happened if it had been the middle of combat and, rather than Denea, it had been an orc standing in her blind spot. Haldrissa revealed no frustration with either her lapse or her second’s impatience as she rose to meet Denea’s eye.
“What is it?”
“You sent for me.”
Haldrissa had, but it had slipped her mind. Simply nodding, she said, “I have gone over all the reports. I believe it urgent we send warning to Darnassus. The orc incursion near the one outpost was the most intrusive, but by far not the only one.”
“They have pushed into the area before. You think this incident that important?”
“Important enough to send a message to General Shandris immediately. Have a hippogryph rider ready within a quarter hour.”
Denea saluted and left. Haldrissa looked over the reports one last time; then, taking quill to parchment, she wrote all she felt pertinent and how in her opinion it tied together. By the time she was done, Denea had returned.
“The rider is ready. I chose Aradria Cloudflyer.”
The commander nodded her approval. Aradria was an expert rider, perhaps the best in all Ashenvale.
Sealing the parchment into a small pouch, Haldrissa again rose. With Denea a step behind her, she strode to where the courier already waited upon a huge forest-green animal with the clawed forelegs and crested head of a bird of prey—a head also adorned with long, wicked antlers—and a body otherwise like the sleekest of stags. His wings were a brilliant orange, like a setting sun. The hippogryph’s eyes radiated fierce intelligence. These creatures were not property or pets but rather allies. Riders did not control so much as work in concert with them.
Aradria leaned down as the commander stepped close. She was even more wiry than Denea. On the other side of the saddle were strapped her glaive and a quiver full of arrows. Her bow was looped over her head and shoulder.
“No one sees this but the general,” Haldrissa ordered as she handed the pouch to the courier.
“None shall,” Aradria promised. She saluted Haldrissa as she straightened. The courier thrust the pouch into a larger one attached to the curved saddle on which she sat.
“Fly with all haste,” the commander continued. “Beware the sea.”
“Windstorm is the fastest we have here.” Aradria patted the hippogryph on the neck. The winged creature nodded, his eyes gleaming in anticipation. “No one will catch him.”
With that promise, she urged the magnificent mount to flight. The others stepped back as Windstorm spread his broad wings and readily rose into the air.
Watching the pair, Haldrissa felt a pang of jealousy. As commander, she rarely had the opportunity to ride such a mount.
“I want to double the patrols, Denea,” she said once the courier and the hippogryph had become a blur. “Daytime and night. Especially night.”
“The orcs would be better off trying to infiltrate during the day,” Denea pointed out, indicating the time when most of the night elves still slept.
“Which is why we need to pay special attention when it is night.”
Her second did not contest her judgment. Haldrissa dismissed Denea, then returned to her quarters. They were sparse, little more than the mat and the necessary tools needed for her reports and such. Another woven mat, this one longer and thicker, served as her bed. Unlike some officers, Haldrissa did not pamper herself. She slept as her soldiers slept.
It will not take her long, the senior officer thought. It will not take Aradria long to reach Darnassus, not by air. She was glad about that. General Shandris would see her concerns and move to address them.
Still, Haldrissa realized that there was yet need to build up the outposts beyond their current strength. As the weary command
er lay down on her sleeping mat, she began calculating how to best rearrange her present level of troops. That further calmed her. Between her missive to the general and her own plans, the Horde was surely in for a dire surprise should it be planning a new attack. The orcs were nothing if not predictable in their overall methods.
Satisfied and eager to let rest ease some of the pain returning to her eye, Haldrissa finally slumbered. Ashenvale would soon be secure again. . . .
The courier grinned as she and the hippogryph soared above the trees. Already deep into night elf territory, they both knew that they could save time skimming above the forest. Aradria had promised Haldrissa that they would get the report to Darnassus as swiftly as possible, and she and Windstorm had every intention of fulfilling that promise. Besides, they had a reputation to keep among the other riders and mounts.
The hippogryph’s powerful wings beat hard. The miles vanished behind them. Aradria left it to her companion to judge where and when he would need to rest; experienced riders never assumed that they knew better than the hippogryphs themselves.
The cool wind felt bracing to the night elf, and she knew that it touched Windstorm the same way. Peering at the landscape below, Aradria made a judgment call as to a change in direction that might cut down their time even more. She tapped the hippogryph on the left side of his broad, muscular neck, using a short series of touches to communicate what she thought. Such a method was far better than trying to shout against the wind.
Without warning, the hippogryph rocked violently, his wings flapping in an awkward, jolting manner. As she clutched tight, the night elf glanced at one of the wings.
Two thick bolts had pierced it, right near the muscle. Blood stained the brilliant plumage and also sprinkled the treetops below.
Aradria looked at the other wing. There, a third bolt had likewise punctured the appendage, and more blood streaked across not only the feathers but the sky behind.
World of Warcraft: Wolfheart Page 5
