The shots were expert, so much so that the wounds kept the hippogryph from maintaining altitude. Windstorm’s talons and hooves raked against the trees as he struggled to stay aloft. Torn leaves and bits of branches assailed the courier as the mount’s battle against descent faltered more and more with each passing second.
“Ungh!” A stray branch as big as her arm hit the night elf in the chest. Aradria lost her breath, then her balance. She fell back.
Windstorm crashed among the trees. The collision was the final straw for the Sentinel, who tumbled off the saddle.
If not for the thickness of the forest canopy here, Aradria would have been dead. As it was, she slammed through one heavy branch after another, until the accumulation of debris falling with her created a barrier that put an end to her fall. She lay there, stunned, with her head and left arm hanging down.
The wounded hippogryph became tangled in a mass of trees just a short distance ahead. Instinct overwhelming thought, Windstorm twisted and turned in an attempt to free himself. The saddle, caught on some of the branches, held him fast for a moment, until brute fury enabled the mount to rip free of it. The saddle dropped several yards farther down the tree.
Aradria heard the hippogryph’s frustration and caught glimpses of his struggles as she pulled herself up to a sitting position. From her shoulder she removed the bow, broken in the fall. Scratched, bleeding, and with one smaller finger bent at an unlikely angle, the night elf nonetheless thought only about her companion and the pouch. Pausing just to reset the finger in order to better her grip, she moved nimbly toward Windstorm.
She had barely begun when the hippogryph, still turned awkwardly despite having freed himself from the saddle, broke through the stressed limbs holding him. The massive beast let out a squawk as he violently descended through one level of branches after another, finally vanishing from Aradria’s sight.
Her desperate gaze fixed on the saddle some distance below. Though she still wanted to help the hippogryph, Aradria knew that her duty was to retrieve the pouch. With one last glance in search of Windstorm, the night elf leapt toward the saddle.
The branches held her, but barely. Even those not directly near where the hippogryph had crashed had been damaged by the falling limbs. Aradria made a swift calculation as to which would best suit her, then jumped to it.
She landed just a few scant yards from the saddle. Only then did she see that the larger pouch was empty. The small one containing the missive now lay somewhere farther below, perhaps even on the ground.
Aradria retrieved her glaive, slinging it on her gauntlet. After a moment’s consideration, the Sentinel also took the quiver of arrows along.
From far below came Windstorm’s angry cry. The night elf began leaping down from branch to branch. At last she spotted a patch of ground . . . and the pouch.
“Praise Elune!” Aradria murmured. Ignoring the pain in her finger, she grasped another branch and descended farther.
An arrow shot past her ear.
She did not see the archer but estimated his position from the bolt’s flight. Aradria whipped the glaive free and threw it.
It cut through the remaining foliage and briefly vanished from sight.
A gruff voice roared in agony. Seconds later the glaive returned to the night elf’s waiting hand. The blades were stained with fresh blood.
Taking a deep breath, the courier dropped the last distance. She could still see the pouch. It leaned against the trunk of the very tree from which she had just descended. Aradria reached for it—
From around the trunk burst a tusked orc, his huge axe already raised high to cleave the night elf in two. His thick mane of hair, bound tight, swung wildly as he ran at her, and the grin spread across his wide face revealed that, while he still had tusks, several of his other teeth had been broken in past conflicts. The damage did more to enhance his already fearsome appearance.
The courier brought up the glaive just in time to deflect the strike. Her entire arm vibrated from the force of the muscular orc’s blow. Aradria gritted her teeth as she fought not to cede her position near the pouch.
The grinning orc slashed away at her again. Every bone in the already injured night elf’s body screamed, yet she held her place. Still, she knew that the impasse could not last: more orcs would surely join the fight.
When her foe raised his axe for his next swing, Aradria retreated a step. The orc’s grin widened as he took this action as evidence that the duel was tilting more in his favor.
Aradria threw the glaive with all her might. The distance was not much, but her determined effort gave the triple-bladed weapon the force it needed.
One curved blade buried itself deep in the orc’s chest.
The green-skinned warrior stumbled. Although he was not dead, the wound was a grave one. With his free hand, he tried to pull the glaive free.
The night elf barreled into him, pressing the glaive deeper as her opponent staggered back. At the same time she reached up to the quiver and grabbed one of the shafts.
Aradria shoved the arrow through the orc’s throat.
The orc let out a gurgling sound. Despite dying, he clutched the night elf tight. The two fell to the ground.
She struggled to free herself. Not far off, she heard movement that did not sound like a forest creature. Anticipating more orcs, the courier finally managed to shove the body away. Unfortunately, she could not immediately free the glaive.
A rustling of brush made her look over her left shoulder in time to see three more orcs racing toward her from behind the nearby trees. Aradria tugged hard, the glaive finally coming out with a grotesque slurping sound. She whirled to face the trio, already aware that she had little chance against them.
Then . . . two more orcs stepped into the area from the opposite direction, cutting off what little hope she had of still fleeing with the pouch. Aradria surreptitiously glanced at the object. There was still a chance to at least destroy the contents if she could buy herself a few moments.
With a brief murmured oath to Elune, the night elf charged the nearest three. Her audacity served her well: the orcs hesitated, all but certain that she had intended to go against the pair. Aradria threw the glaive as she lunged.
The spinning missile forced the trio to scatter. The glaive soared past the orcs, then arced back, but not to the night elf’s previous position. Rather, both it and she converged on the location where the pouch lay.
But she had underestimated the swiftness of at least one of the other two orcs. Even as Aradria caught the glaive, he reached the pouch. Clutching the prize in one hand, the brutish warrior turned to battle her.
The courier swung the glaive at him, then suddenly kicked. Although the orc outweighed her, the force was still enough to shove the air from his lungs. Aradria pressed her attack, hoping to take him down and retrieve the pouch.
Much to her dismay, the other nearby orc came between them. His intrusion enabled his comrade to recover, and both dueled with the tiring night elf.
Aradria knew that the other three had to be closing. She was trapped.
Suddenly a deep squawk shook the combatants. A huge form shot past the night elf. Mighty talons tore through the torso of one orc.
Though bleeding in many places and clearly favoring one front leg, Windstorm was yet a tremendous threat. The orcs could not get past his sharp beak. His body blocked them from reaching Aradria.
The night elf used his timely entrance to beat back her other two adversaries. She then took a quick look at the hippogryph, trying to estimate his condition. Windstorm could not fly—that was clear from his one badly drooping wing—but perhaps he could still carry her from the struggle.
First, though, she needed the pouch.
“Windstorm!” As the hippogryph responded, Aradria gestured at the orc with the stolen prize.
The huge beast might not be able to fly, but he could leap very well. Using his talons, he scattered the two orcs near him, then turned and made a tremendous jum
p over Aradria.
The other orcs backed away at his landing. Windstorm ignored the one without the pouch. The hippogryph snapped at the key warrior, but that orc refused to give up the pouch even in the face of such a threat. At the same time Aradria moved up, hoping to attack the orc while he was distracted by Windstorm.
Windstorm thrust his head forward, his beak opened wide.
A spear caught the hippogryph in the side of the chest. Windstorm let out a startled cry and teetered. In doing so, he collided with his rider, bowling her over.
The world spun as Aradria rolled. A horrific pain shot through her chest. She almost blacked out.
A nerve-wrenching keening cut briefly through the agony. Aradria heard a moist thwacking sound, then Windstorm’s shriek. A moment later the ground shook as something heavy and limp crashed next to her.
The pain consumed her . . . until finally there was nothing left.
One of the orcs with whom Aradria had been battling started to lean over the night elf’s still form. Blood seeped from a deep wound near the courier’s left lung, where one of the curved blades from her glaive had pierced her during her roll.
“Why bother?” another orc questioned. “The wound’s deep. She can’t be alive.”
“If she is,” rumbled a deeper voice, “she deserves a warrior’s death for such determination against impossible odds.”
A shadow passed the second orc, the shadow of a much brawnier warrior than he. One hand—brown rather than green—gripped an axe more suited for two hands in combat. The sharply curved axe head was massive, well worn, and permanently stained with old blood. One of its most distinctive features was the many small holes in the head near the handle.
Other orcs gathered in the area, their numbers totaling just over a dozen. Three bore injuries that indicated a previous encounter with the hippogryph.
The warrior who had retrieved the pouch presented it to the leader.
“I saw no breathing. She is dead. This was what she fought so hard for, great warchief. . . .”
The leader hooked the huge axe on his back, then took the pouch. Because he was a Mag’har orc, his skin was brown, not green. His jaw was broader than that of most orcs, and from it jutted a pair of thick tusks with points as sharp as daggers. Unlike the others in the party, he was bald. He wore shoulder armor fashioned in part from the skull of a huge predator that he himself had slain, and over each shoulder had also been set a massive, curved tusk. The last was in homage to his father, Grom, for they were those of the pit lord Mannoroth, the great demon his sire had slain. By killing Mannoroth, Grom had freed his people from the fiend’s blood-curse, which had made them servants of the monstrous Burning Legion.
Tearing open the small pouch with ease, he read the message. A single, satisfied grunt was his only initial reaction.
“The spirits have guided us. We were where we needed to be to catch this prey.” He crammed the parchment into a pouch at his belt. “Destiny is with us. All falls into place. The night elves react exactly as I said they would.”
“Garrosh Hellscream knows all!” declared the orc who had handed him the pouch. “He guides his enemies to their doom and laughs at their feeble attempts to keep their necks from his mighty axe, Gorehowl!”
“Gorehowl will taste much night elf blood soon. The Horde’s glory is eternal,” Garrosh replied, his tone filled with rising anticipation. “This is our land now. . . . ” He looked around. “So much timber. So much untouched ore. The Alliance was foolish not to use its bounty. We—we will build a city here to rival even Orgrimmar.”
The other orcs gave a lusty though low cheer. Although in the wilderness, they could still not trust that there might not be others who would hear them. None of the orcs feared battle, but this mission was of the greatest import to the plan, or else the warchief himself would not have chosen to lead it. The courier had been an exception: the scout who had spotted her in the distance had suspected from her route and pace that she surely carried something of importance, and had reported the sighting immediately. Garrosh had not hesitated for a moment before ordering his archers to bring down the hippogryph.
“I have seen all I need. We return now. The ships will soon arrive.” He grinned, already envisioning the carnage their contents would create. “My gift to the Alliance must be readied. . . .”
The rest of the band let loose with another low cheer. Garrosh pulled free Gorehowl and briefly waved it. The unsettling keening arose once more, then quieted as the warchief lowered his axe. Gripping the weapon in both hands, he then led his followers east.
Behind them, Aradria stirred, let out a brief moan . . . then grew still once more.
5
BITTER REUNIONS
True to her promise, the high priestess arranged matters for Jarod Shadowsong. Shalasyr lay at rest in the temple in an area reserved for such sad tableaux, her body now garbed in the raiment of the Sisterhood. She had been placed on a marble platform with the sign of the goddess—the crescent moon—etched multiple times into each side. The light of Elune shone down upon her, and her face bore an expression of peace. Those who had known her came to give their respects, each going down on one knee, then murmuring a prayer for her spirit to the Mother Moon.
The temple never closed its doors to the faithful, although most of those coming to honor Shalasyr came during the evening. However, time meant nothing to Jarod, who ever leaned over his beloved, either praying to Elune or silently speaking to his mate. The travel cloak lay bunched up to the side, but otherwise he was clad in the same forest-green and brown garments in which he had arrived. His beard and hair were slightly unkempt; such mundane matters were of no interest to him at this time.
Generally, there were two priestesses in attendance for such occasions, but at the former captain’s request Tyrande had removed them. Although grateful for all that had been done for his mate, Jarod desired privacy when no other mourners were present.
Head resting upon his folded hands, he spoke again to Shalasyr, this time reminding her of when they had built their first dwelling together. It had been a simple one, designed to give them shelter while they made plans for something more permanent. The mistakes they had made in its creation had done more to bind them together.
Jarod looked up, well-honed instincts alerting him to the presence of another. He glanced over his shoulder at the entrance.
“My respects for your loss,” Shandris quietly said. “The Mother Moon guides her spirit now.”
The general of the Sentinels moved as smoothly as a nightsaber and, to Jarod, seemed much unchanged physically from when they had last met. She carried her helmet in the crook of her arm, which allowed him to study close her face. As usual, Shandris’s true emotions remained hidden, save for a brief flash of what he read as either anger or uncertainty.
Shandris had been adopted by Tyrande, but they looked enough alike in the face to have passed for true mother and child. However, the high priestess had a softness to her expression that Jarod had seldom seen on Shandris. The general was also clad very true to her nature, her sleek, violet armor covering most of her form. The armor had been designed as much for swift movement as protection; even the shoulderguards were set so that Shandris could raise a bow or sword at a moment’s notice without any hindrance. The helmet—which only covered the upper half of the face—had also been forged with those two thoughts in mind. It could be easily set atop or pulled off of the head without ever catching on the long, tapering ears of a night elf or, in Shandris’s case, tangling with her long, dark blue hair.
“Thank you.” As she strode toward him, Jarod straightened to better face her. Her somber expression matched well his own.
“I recall her,” the general continued, looking at the still figure. “She had much merit.”
“She had life. She breathed life. The world brightened wherever she went.”
Shandris turned more toward the body, in the process her expression becoming hidden from Jarod’s view. “You tru
ly loved her.”
“Of course.”
“Then I envy her.”
He gaped. “Shandris—”
The female night elf looked back at him. Her eyes were moist, but the tears were clearly not entirely for the deceased. “I am sorry. I have been rude. You know that you have my deepest sympathies. To lose her so suddenly after so long . . . it is not right.”
“Shandris . . .”
“I must go,” she muttered, looking even more uncomfortable than Jarod felt.
He tried to gently take her arm, but Shandris evaded his touch without seeming to try. She could not keep him from following her, though, and thus the two walked in silence out of the chamber.
Jarod looked around, saw that no one was near, then quietly said, “I have owed you an apology for a long time—”
“You owe me no such thing. Nothing ever truly happened between us.”
He looked back at the chamber, his face radiating guilt. Then: “I do not deny I was enchanted by your attention, especially once you had grown up, but we were heading in opposite directions in life. Those years right after the war were hard on all of us. All I wanted was to try to forget the carnage and the deaths. I never wanted to be a leader . . . a hero. . . . ” Jarod said the last word with much self-derision. “I felt out of place, something you did not. You had purpose. You had your duty to the temple and the high priestess.”
“She has—”
Jarod held up a hand for silence, and, clearly to his surprise, Shandris obeyed. “That you would be devoted to Tyrande not only for saving your life but for becoming the mother you lost is hardly something with which I would find fault. Yet she . . . and through her, our people . . . have been and always will be your foremost focus.”
Shandris opened her mouth, then shut it. There was no denial in her eyes. Instead, she leaned up and suddenly kissed him on the cheek. There was not even the mildest attempt at seduction; this was a token of sympathy for his plight.
World of Warcraft: Wolfheart Page 6
