“Genn will make amends for all,” Tyrande interjected. “You know that as well as I. We already know how much he sacrificed to get matters to this point.”
“But will it be worth it in the end? They nearly attacked one another. Genn came very close to losing control of himself, and with some reason!”
“Perhaps we should discuss this at another time,” the high priestess commented. “Velen, if you could—” But to the surprise of both night elves, the Prophet had surreptitiously departed the conversation, almost as if he knew the two were about to enter subjects best discussed purely between them.
“Well, we can trust Velen, that is for certain,” Malfurion murmured. Then, sobering, he added, “Tyrande, before you speak, I have to tell you—”
“He is the one, Mal.”
“I know Elune tells you so and I understand that it should be so, but you saw him! Varian could perhaps be the leader the Alliance needs, yet he also stands a very good chance of becoming the one who further guides it to disaster!”
“Varian is troubled, I agree—”
“More than troubled, though with good cause.” The archdruid tugged on his beard in contemplation. “And his disdain for Genn strikes me as being as much for himself as it is for the king of Gilneas. There was that in his tone that hinted more of self-reproach. . . .”
“I heard that, also.” The high priestess casually glanced to her side. “The others are beginning to leave. The banquet is over.”
“The banquet was a debacle. The others here have seen Varian proclaim the worgen unfit to be part of the Alliance! We cannot let that notion stand. . . .”
“I will go speak with the others. Perhaps you can do something with Varian.”
“Perhaps.” Malfurion could not hide his doubt concerning such a hope.
She put her hand on his. “Elune will guide us. Have faith.”
He grunted. “I of all people should, should I not?”
“Go. Speak with Varian.”
Malfurion knew better than to argue when she used that tone. They kissed, then the archdruid, with a bow to the remaining guests, followed after the king of Stormwind.
To someone who had slept in bug-infested cages and grimy, blood-soaked cells during his days as a slave and gladiator, the woodland quarters offered by his hosts seemed far too soft in comparison. Even Varian’s chambers back home were not nearly so calm, so peaceful. The king considered departing Darnassus for the relative familiarity of his confining quarters aboard ship, but respected his hosts enough not to insult them . . . or at least not insult them any more than he had with his denunciation of Genn Greymane.
Varian had no regrets there. In fact, he had a rather great satisfaction. He knew that he had behaved badly, but in Greymane he had found an outlet for some of the fire ever raging within him.
There was a knock at the door. The night elves had gone out of their way to make their guests feel at home, and so the chambers set aside for Varian and his retinue were fairly human in design and accommodations. Unfortunately, they still had that “nature” feel he always associated with those of the archdruid’s race. Far better were the oppressive stone walls of the keep.
One of the guards cautiously opened the door. Even in Darnassus, one did not take chances. Varian had already caught wind of something amiss, something that had happened just before his arrival.
Anduin and the two bodyguards sent to retrieve him entered. Varian, his heart lightening, went straight to his son.
“You had me worried!” To the two men, he growled, “Let this not happen again! Should any harm come to my son, I will have—”
“Leave it be, Father.”
Anduin spoke quietly, ever calmly, but still he did momentarily what no one else could: silence the king.
Recovering, Varian said, “Anduin, you must understand! You are the prince of Stormwind! Nowhere, not even here, should be considered safe enough for you to go wandering off! You always need at least a guard with you.”
“Yes. I’m not very good at defending myself,” the prince retorted. “I’m not the great warrior you are. You and Magni have already seen how badly I handle a sword, even in practice.”
“I didn’t mean—”
The prince sighed. It was a sound Varian heard often and usually because of something he had done out of concern for his son. “No, you don’t. You never do, Father. I’m back, safe and sound. As usual.”
“Anduin—” Against any foe, the king could stand resolute in his next move. Against his son, he constantly floundered.
“Good night, Father.” The prince walked on, following his guards to the room set aside for him.
As unsettling as the conversation no doubt had been to their guards, Anduin had actually kept it from getting worse by cutting it off. Varian knew that—could even appreciate it—but that still did not ease the sting of his son’s obvious reprimand.
Now the serenity of the night elven dwelling finally proved too much for him. “Stay here,” he commanded the guards, aware as much as they that he was placing them in a similar position as when Anduin had not remained with the party. “I need to walk.”
They knew better than to argue. No longer paying them any heed, Varian strode out. However, like in his quarters, the tranquility of the capital did nothing to ease his heart. Instead, he stared at the forest beyond.
His pace quickened. The wilderness beckoned.
“King Varian! I was just coming to see you.”
The human hid his disappointment, though for a moment his eyes lingered longingly on the trees beyond the city.
“Archdruid,” he responded, finally acknowledging his host. “My thanks for our quarters. They will do just fine.”
“Which is why you had to flee them at the first chance,” the night elf returned with a slight smile. “Please. I will not stand on ceremony with you. Call me Malfurion.”
“Then I’ll ask you to call me Varian.”
“As you wish. If you do not mind, I hoped to have a word with you.”
The lord of Stormwind exhaled. “My sincerest apologies for ruining your banquet.”
“The banquet is of no consequence. The gathering is. You appreciate bluntness, Varian. I am more concerned about your confrontation with Genn.”
The mere mention of Greymane’s name stirred the embers within. Varian’s pulse pounded. “I’d prefer not to speak about that, Malfurion.”
The night elf would not be dissuaded. “Varian, I must ask you to consider everything that happens before, during, and after the summit in light of what Azeroth has become due to the Cataclysm. Each choice we make has to be carefully weighed.”
“You’re referring to the induction.”
“Of course. I hope you will see reason—”
The king no longer had any desire to head to the forest. Is there nowhere I can be free?
Malfurion was clearly intent on pressing forward with his point. Varian could see only one way to at least end the conversation.
“I’ll give Genn and the worgen a fair consideration. You have my word.”
Malfurion heard the finality in his voice and wisely accepted the answer as it was. “Thank you, Varian. That is all I can ask—”
Another figure intruded upon them. Varian fought down his impatience with the seemingly never-ending situation. His trained eyes took in the newcomer, who, though a night elf, was dressed in a colorful outfit that the king thought Malfurion surely also found gaudy.
“Archdruid Stormrage,” the other greeted solemnly.
“Var’dyn.”
Varian’s sharp ears caught a slight inflection in the night elf’s voice, as if the archdruid not only knew what this other figure wanted . . . but dreaded it for some reason.
Exactly what the other elf was finally registered with Varian. He recalled the reports. So this is a Highborne.
The Highborne barely seemed to notice the human. The king recalled the apparent arrogance of Var’dyn’s kind. He also remembered that they were
magi . . . and reckless ones at that.
The archdruid said, “I thank you for your time and your reply, Varian. I look forward to speaking with you further.”
The king took advantage of the situation. “Naturally. Forgive me now; I must be going. Good evening.”
He did not even acknowledge the Highborne as he left, thinking that the other elf did not deserve any better than he gave. Varian gratefully departed the pair, silently wishing he had never sailed from Stormwind.
A slight movement in the trees nearby caught the corner of his eye. Varian did not focus on it, aware that by the time he turned the source would be gone from sight. Besides, the king was fairly certain just what had been lurking at the forest’s edge.
His scowl deepened. Under his breath, he muttered, “Damned worgen.”
Var’dyn did not speak until the human was long gone. Malfurion, aware of the news he had not yet had the opportunity to present to the Highborne, solemnly waited. The archdruid wanted to hear Var’dyn out to see how much the latter knew.
“I am here concerning the disappearance,” Var’dyn bluntly stated. “You know that.”
Malfurion waited for the Highborne to continue, but that apparently was all the mage wished to say for the moment. Instead, Var’dyn looked expectantly at the archdruid.
There is no use delaying the inevitable, Malfurion thought. “So, Maiev Shadowsong has informed the Highborne of everything already—”
He got no further: Var’dyn’s perplexed expression told him that the mage had no idea whatsoever about anything concerning Maiev—or her discovery.
“What should we know about, Archdruid?”
“Thera’brin is dead. Murdered.”
Var’dyn stiffened. “Tell me.”
Malfurion did, leaving out no detail. The spellcaster remained stone-faced throughout. The only true sign of his growing fury was his hands, which folded into tight fists and stayed so.
“The body will be returned to us immediately,” Var’dyn declared when Malfurion finished. His voice held no emotion. He stared past the other night elf, as if seeing something far, far away. “There will be no further desecration of it by anyone for any reason.”
“That was the intention. Maiev—”
“Yes . . . the warden. She can continue with her investigation, but she will not speak with us. If there is anything we learn, we will relate it to you, Archdruid. I leave it to you to let her know what she needs.”
It was hardly the most logical system, but the Highborne were not very trusting—and, at the moment, Malfurion could not entirely blame them.
“I will speak to her as soon as I can,” he promised Var’dyn.
The mage did not answer, his gaze once again distant. The edge of his mouth twitched. Malfurion grew disturbed.
“Var’dyn. I swear that Thera’brin’s death will be investigated thoroughly and the assassins brought to justice! I only ask that the Highborne have some patience—”
“We cannot afford patience, Archdruid,” Var’dyn blurted. He finally looked directly at Malfurion again, and in those eyes the archdruid read a sense of dread. “You see. I did not come to speak with you about Thera’brin. Another of my people has gone missing.”
12
THE HORDE STRIKES
There was still no word from Darnassus, although Haldrissa hoped for it soon. Nevertheless, she went on with her own plans to organize against this latest Horde incursion. Of necessity, that meant a swift, simple ceremony for poor Xanon.
The commander said appropriate words for her dead officer, then turned over the final moments to Kara’din, one of the two druids assigned to her here in Ashenvale as part of some project of the high priestess and the archdruid’s to bring the night elf race closer together. The other, Parsis, was somewhere in the forest behind them, wandering the Emerald Dream or something—Haldrissa was not quite sure. She was as devoted to the ways of her people as most night elves, but the druids were a lot that sometimes baffled and frustrated her. They often seemed to be half-asleep—or more, even—and spoke about aspects of the world that had no practical use for a soldier.
As soon as the funeral finished, Haldrissa headed back. Denea followed close. Although her second obeyed every order she gave without question, Haldrissa could sense a distance growing between them. She was certain that Denea and some of the other officers blamed their commander for not only Xanon’s death but the other losses as well. Of course, most of her officers had not been out in the field as long as Haldrissa, so for the moment she forgave their naïveté. If they survived life half as long as she had, they would learn.
But will they get that opportunity? she suddenly asked herself. This latest intrusion by the Horde looked to be on a far greater scale than in the past.
“Denea . . .”
“Yes, Commander?”
“I want four scouts to take their hippogryphs toward the northeast. Not so far as we journeyed. From the air, they should be able to see enough even then.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Oh, and how soon will the full mounted contingent be ready?”
“We can ride first thing tomorrow.” Although Denea tried to maintain a steadiness in her voice, a hint of anticipation crept into it.
Haldrissa made certain that her own voice remained calm and in command. “If the scouts return with their report by then, we shall. We do not move until then.”
“With your permission, then, I will go get the scouts.”
Haldrissa’s nod was all Denea needed. She rushed off, obviously determined to see to it that the Sentinels did indeed ride off the next day.
I remember being so eager once, the senior officer thought . . . then immediately cursed herself for such maudlin notions. The only difference between Denea and her was that Haldrissa had the millennia of experience to know how to temper eagerness with caution. A commander’s trait.
A low rumble stirred her. From the west trundled in a short train of supply wagons guided by an armed Sentinel escort. The captain in charge of the escort anxiously peered around, not a good sign at all.
Haldrissa immediately headed to her.
The captain saluted. “Commander Haldrissa?”
“Yes. Did something happen?” She surveyed the wagons but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Nothing, that is, save that the last wagon had an extra burden draped out of the back. A large, winged form. The stench of decay, so familiar to the veteran officer, was strong even before Haldrissa reached the wagon.
“We found the hippogryph about a day out,” the captain reported as she dismounted. “Been dead for some time.”
Wordlessly, Haldrissa rushed to the huge corpse. She wanted to deny it for what—and who—it was, but as she neared, the distinctive markings verified the worst. It was definitely Windstorm.
And that meant only the worst where Aradria and the message for Darnassus were concerned.
“He had many wounds, mostly from arrows, but a great axe is what finally did him in,” the captain concluded.
Haldrissa peered into the wagon. Windstorm’s corpse was set against a number of barrels. Of Aradria Cloudflyer there was no sign. “The courier! Where is she?”
“We found only the hippogryph, not her, though there were traces of blood elsewhere that could have been from the courier. We did discover several dead orcs—”
“Never mind the orcs! What of the courier?”
Cowed by Haldrissa’s fury, the young officer blurted, “As I said, she was nowhere to be found, but—”
“‘Nowhere to be found’ . . . ” The commander took heart from that. She saw the scene playing out. Windstorm, sorely wounded in the sky, had no doubt brought his rider to the ground so that she could escape on foot with the pouch while he sacrificed himself to keep the orc scouts at bay.
That the orcs had penetrated so very deep bothered her, but Aradria’s escape made up for that. There were places en route where an expert courier such as Aradria could gain another mount.
The captain had been saying something, but Haldrissa had not been paying attention. “What was that?”
“I said that we also found this there.”
Haldrissa herself could not see it, but her expression must have been terrible to see, for the captain suddenly gaped at her.
The tattered pouches gave testament to the folly of the commander’s earlier hopes. Aradria had not gotten away. She would have never abandoned the missive. Either the orcs had disposed of her body or some beast had dragged it away.
And Darnassus still had no idea what was happening in Ashenvale.
Denea. Abandoning the confused captain, Haldrissa hurried after her second. Denea already had scouts preparing for the mission. However, rather than sending them ahead as originally planned, this time she would have all of them wait until she had had four more copies of the previous message written. Then the scouts would head to Darnassus. Denea would just have to bridle her eagerness to hunt down the orcs for another day or so. Matters could wait that long, at least, so Haldrissa believed.
“Denea!” she shouted. Her second stood with the four scouts, evidently just about to send them off. “Denea!”
Her voice did not carry enough. Eager to march off herself, the younger officer signaled permission for the four scouts and their hippogryphs to depart. The group quickly rose into the air.
Denea finally turned in response to Haldrissa’s shouting. “Commander?”
“Signal them to return! Aradria never made it! I want all four of them to head to Darnassus instead!” She had considered using owls to carry the messages; however, not only were the hippogryphs much faster, but the riders could also defend the missives.
The other Sentinel rushed to one of the signal horns set aside for summoning the warriors to action. It was their only hope of recalling the hippogryph riders in time. Denea put the curved horn to her mouth and blew as hard as she could.
The blare caused every Sentinel to pause in what she or he was doing. Too late, Haldrissa realized that many of them, already preparing for the deadly march, might think the call to action had come sooner than expected.
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