A hand gripped his left arm. The touch was initially enough to resurrect some traces of the monstrous pain. Jarod cringed, fearing the full force of it would return; but although the fingers held tight, the pain receded again, becoming nothing but memory.
“Can you understand me?” asked an unfamiliar male voice. “Can you?”
The former guard captain managed a croaking sound that the other apparently took as an affirmative. The figure moved Jarod to the side, finally resting him against a tree.
“I’m sorry,” his rescuer whispered. “I didn’t know that would happen. I didn’t realize that it was there.”
Jarod managed another croak. His vision was still clouded by tears. His companion could have been invisible for all he was able to make out of him.
He felt the hands stiffen as an unidentifiable sound in the distance reached them. Jarod’s rescuer suddenly released him. The night elf did not hear the other depart, but felt certain somehow that such was the case.
Jarod’s breathing returned to near normal. His vision remained teary, but shapes began to coalesce. Vaguely, Jarod finally registered that he had been caught in some insidious trap. So close to where Maiev and her Watchers met, he thought it was possible that it had been set by the assassins to catch one of them. After all, his sister was in charge of the investigation.
Barely a minute had passed when light footsteps alerted him to someone’s approach. Jarod did not think it his rescuer, and when he heard the intake of breath—a sign of the newcomer’s apparent astonishment at discovering him—he knew it to be female. The former captain could only assume it was Neva, who had finally managed to follow his trail.
“You live . . . ,” he heard the Watcher say.
“Of course he does,” responded another, stronger female voice that made Jarod look up. He saw a vague shape standing over him. “He is my brother, after all.”
14
THE WORGEN
More resembling a ghostly fleet worthy of the undead Forsaken, the eight remaining Horde ships at last reached Bilgewater Harbor, located off of Azshara, which lay east of greater Ashenvale. Captain Briln wasted no time disembarking once the goblins who ran the port had set everything in place. He had delivered what he could of his cargo and now was happy to be rid of it . . . even if that also meant that he would have to face the warchief over his failure.
Since his last visit here, the port had been built up considerably, and now covered the entire small island. The main keep rose high above the other structures and a thriving population—mostly goblins—scurried about as they dealt with not only the docking ships but also countless other Horde-related activities. At one of the other docks, a crane ending in a large hook lowered supplies into a warship.
A goblin operating a foul-smelling mechanism used for unloading cargo trundled by in the distance. As deadly as the shredders could be when turned on a foe, they paled in comparison to the natural fury of Briln’s cargo.
The first of the huge hold doors opened, and the crews began unloading the covered cages. None of those who had been part of the journey looked like the orcs that they had once been. Everyone was drawn, anxious.
From the docks there came some sniggering from a pair of goblins watching the activities. Growling, Briln turned on the short, wiry figures, towering over them.
“The warchief’s pets’re hungry after this journey! They could use a snack—or two. . . . ” As the goblins fell silent, he added, “Now, you can either help your lot take over control of the cages, or you can be part o’ what I feed them. . . .”
With great swallows and suddenly polite demeanors, the two goblins saluted the captain and hurried to obey.
Briln allowed himself a short chuckle before the seriousness of his own situation again arose to the forefront. He was more likely than the goblins to become food for the cargo.
He suddenly noticed a flurry of movement from the mainland. A fair-size party was approaching by boat, one that included at least half a dozen capable guards who could only be part of the warchief’s famed Kor’kron.
“Garrosh,” he whispered. Not for a moment did Briln think of seeking to avoid the encounter. His honor meant more than his life, and he would not be branded a coward in the last moments of it.
The crews and the dockworkers already had all but two of the cages settled in an open area reserved just for their arrival. Briln was proud of those who had served under him during the epic journey. He would commend them all before his execution.
Dust and bits of leaves decorated Garrosh and his retinue, a sign that they themselves had also but recently arrived in Azshara. The warchief had an expectant look on his face, but whether that boded good or ill for the captain, Briln could not say, and thus he did not raise his hopes.
Orcs and goblins slapped their right fists to the left sides of their chests as the Horde leader passed. Garrosh did not demand such signs of fealty, but was the type of commander who simply received them due to the immense respect and fear his followers had in him.
Briln did as the others and in addition kept his head low. Garrosh, should he desire it, could have that head immediately.
“Briln,” rumbled the warchief. “A long journey you’ve had.”
“A short one, when in service to the Horde and you,” the captain returned, daring to peer up under his thick brow. “And surely less dangerous than the trek from which my warchief’s obviously just come!”
“We do what we do for the greater cause.” Garrosh stared past him at the cages. “Eight. There were supposed to be more.”
“There were . . . troubles.”
“Storms?”
“Yes, and the unrest of the cargo. Much of the concoction meant to keep the beasts docile was lost, and so we could do only what we could do.” Even as he spoke, Briln felt his shame growing. His replies sounded so weak, he thought it a wonder Garrosh did not cut out his tongue to make him stop.
“Eight,” the warchief repeated. “Show them to me.”
Briln was now certain of his fate. Garrosh would not take his head; he would let one of the beasts rip the captain to shreds. Briln could not blame the warchief. It was a reasonable punishment for one who had so badly failed.
He led Garrosh and the others to the first of the cages. Inside, the beast, smelling the nearness of so many orcs, stirred. The sides of the cage shook.
“Pull back the tarp!” the captain ordered.
Four of the crew used the attached ropes to pull back the tarp over the cage door. As they did, the shaking increased and a growl rose. From the other cages there came answering sounds. Briln felt a moment of déjà vu and half expected one or more of the creatures to break free. Guards with spears quickly moved in just in case they had to defend the warchief.
The captain took no comfort in the awed expressions of several of those with Garrosh. They had every reason to be amazed and not a little wary of the prizes that their leader had ordered shipped from Northrend. However, none of them had been assigned the task. They were safe. Briln was not.
Garrosh stepped closer . . . too close for the captain’s taste. The beast, apparently of the same opinion, leapt forward and tried to fit an arm through the bars. Unlike the one monster, this creature failed. He sought then to bend the bars in order to make a better attempt, but although they creaked ominously, they did not give . . . for now.
The warchief appeared unimpressed by the ferocity of the caged horror. Looking to the Kor’kron, he said, “They’ll have to be reminded of their purpose . . . and what will happen if they don’t follow through.”
It was the first time in ages that Briln was reminded that, despite everything, the beasts were nearly as intelligent as their captors. Much more primitive, certainly, but nearly as intelligent.
One of Garrosh’s guards gestured to another Kor’kron standing by the entrance to a metal longhouse just north of the area. Something had been planned for just this occasion, and the captain had an idea what it was.
The gr
im guard disappeared into the longhouse. All the while, the beast before Garrosh raged, now joined with savage gusto by the other seven. Everywhere, orcs and goblins tensed, awaiting disaster. Only the warchief and the Kor’kron remained absolutely calm, even expectant.
Several startled grunts suddenly arose from the longhouse. They were like nothing Briln had ever heard.
No . . . they did resemble something. Although higher in pitch and sounding more curious than frightened, they were very much akin to the deeper voices of the cargo.
And the creatures in the cargo knew it also. Almost as one, the eight cages grew silent.
Garrosh nodded to the one before him. The warchief did not look happy with what had just taken place, but seemed resigned to it. “You understand. They are well, as I have promised. You will all thus keep your promise.”
There was a grunt from the cage. Garrosh signaled for the tarp to be let down again. Only when it had completely covered up the cargo did Briln breathe easier.
The guard who had entered the longhouse exited again, this time to report to the warchief. He looked a bit anxious as he neared. Garrosh indicated that the party—including the captain—should step farther away from the cages.
“I did as you commanded,” the Kor’kron muttered, speaking so that only those with Garrosh could hear. “I gave some of the younglings a share of that sweetened meat their kind likes so much. They raised a real ruckus. Was it enough?”
Garrosh nodded approval. “The adult beasts heard them. They should stay docile now. They just had to be reminded about our deal.”
At that moment Briln found he did not envy Garrosh; the complexities of command in such times surely tore at Garrosh’s sense of honor constantly as he sought to do what was best for his followers in the long run.
He must have stared too long at the warchief, for Garrosh abruptly looked back at him. The legendary warrior’s brow furrowed. “How many died to bring even these eight here?”
Briln made an estimate that included not only those lost when their ships went down but also those lost in getting the beasts to the port in Northrend. Having tried continuously to avoid thinking of those who had given their lives while he had survived, the captain was dismayed by the number he told the warchief.
Garrosh was equally dismayed and did not entirely hide that fact. “As many as that? A great price . . . but it’ll be worth their sacrifices and more when Ashenvale falls to us!” The Horde leader straightened, now looking every bit the dedicated, confident commander. “They who’ve died to bring these beasts here will stand beside us in spirit as we crush our foes! When the last outpost falls, this victory will belong as much to them as to those of us who are there to see it happen!”
His vow brought cheers from those surrounding him, even Briln. If he was to be executed, he hoped that at least he would be remembered along with all the other dead involved in this mission. It was more than he could ask.
“Captain Briln.”
The mariner swallowed. He immediately slapped his fist against his chest again, then bent his head so as to offer his neck. “My warchief, I can’t give any excuse for my failure! You command that we bring you ten, and I deliver only eight! Many of those who perished did so as part of the fleet that I oversaw!” Briln waited for Gorehowl to fall, but when the fabled axe did not cut off his head, he went on. “My warchief, I confess all these failures, all these stains to my honor, and await my fate!”
There was silence, then he heard Garrosh say, “Your honor is your life.”
“Yes, my warchief.”
“And your life you offer to me.”
Again Briln agreed. At the same time he thought to himself, My disgrace is great! Garrosh rightly makes me suffer for my failures before granting me a proper death to atone for them!
“So, if your life is mine, then your honor is mine . . . and as it is my honor at stake, I would have it redeemed in battle!”
The captain could not help gaping as he looked up. “I don’t understand, Warchief. . . .”
“You will join us as we march through Ashenvale and see your work crush the Alliance! You will stand at the forefront, and if you die, your name will be spoken with pride by our people for generations!”
Garrosh himself offered Briln a hand up. The captain stared wide-eyed.
“Your first mate will now be captain. You’ll now command soldiers in combat, and you will serve directly under me.”
Briln’s chest swelled with pride. “I will slay a hundred night elves before they bring me down! I will destroy Silverwing Outpost myself!”
The warchief chuckled. “Fight well. That’s what I ask.”
“I will!”
There was a rumble from the closest cage, but a tentative one that did not threaten. The creatures were subdued.
“We leave at sunrise tomorrow,” Garrosh announced with confidence, ignoring the fact that he had clearly just arrived himself after what must have been a strenuous ride. “The first stage of my plan’s at work on the night elves in Ashenvale already! Their communications with Darnassus are cut off and they will be making many assumptions as to what comes next based on past wars!” He gestured at the cages. “They’ll die discovering just what great fools they’ve been made. . . .”
The nearest beast rumbled again, this time seeming to echo the warchief’s triumphant tone. Briln’s grin widened. He would live to see his work unleashed upon the night elves. He would live to know that he had served the Horde well.
And he would live to see the beginning of a new world—one forged by the hand of the Horde, not the Alliance. . . .
Tyrande and Malfurion had chosen to have the summit outside, in an area often used for grand events. They could have used the temple, where they had held their wedding, but part of the choice had to do with the Gilneans. It had been agreed by both that the introduction of Genn’s people to the Alliance would be better served outside, where some of those who might be discomforted by their presence would be able to avoid feeling trapped.
Now, with seating arranged in more circular fashion save for an entrance to the east, the highest-ranking night elves seated themselves and then awaited the entrances of their guests. All had now arrived save the magi of Dalaran, whose ruling council, the Kirin Tor, had declined to send a representative due to Dalaran’s desire to remain a bridge between the two warring sides. In Dalaran, magi of the Horde were as welcome as those serving the Alliance.
Tyrande and Malfurion had the seats of honor at the opposing end from the entrance. Sentinels in their full uniforms stood as honor guard near not only the high priestess and archdruid but also the entrance, where they would flank each of the visiting contingents.
But this was more than merely the official introduction of the summit. The entrances would be climaxed by the Ceremony of Induction, when new members of the Alliance would be added by call of vote. If a new member was accepted, it made sense that its representatives would then seat themselves and become part of the discussion to follow. To wait until a gathering was nearly at the end was ludicrous.
And if a supplicant was rejected . . . it also made sense for that party to depart as quickly as possible so as to keep its shame to a minimum.
On the surface, there was no sign of the turmoil going on in Darnassus. News had reached the pair that something—exactly what it was had not been made clear—had happened to Maiev’s brother in the course of the investigation. Malfurion and Tyrande only knew that Jarod was bedridden from injury. The high priestess had sent healers, and so there was apparently no fear of permanent injury, but both leaders desired to speak with Maiev’s brother as soon as matters permitted.
Archmage Mordent had also promised that the Highborne would remain quiet about the investigation during the events, though Var’dyn had voiced some opposition to that. The spellcasters had no active role in the summit, their situation strictly a night elf matter and of no business to the Alliance as a whole.
When all were seated save for those making
their entrance, Tyrande signaled the trumpeters.
The horns blared, and the procession of Alliance members commenced.
So that there would be no quarrels, the positions were chosen by lots. Thus it was that by sheer chance the first to enter were the gnomes, led by Gelbin Mekkatorque in his mechanostrider. The gnomes were followed by the representatives of Theramore, and so on.
Each contingent sought to display to the best of their abilities their prowess. Wondrous and unnerving mechanisms traveled with the gnomes. The dwarves performed martial feats with their hammers as they marched, revealing the swiftness and dexterity their stout forms belied.
Each time one faction stepped through the entrance, the anthem of its land played. At the sound of the first note, the night elves rose in respect to their guests and remained so as one group followed another.
Around the place of gathering, the banners of each delegation fluttered proud and strong, even though those in attendance did not feel any breeze themselves. The well-focused wind was the archdruid’s doing.
Each procession halted before the high priestess and archdruid. There, the ruler or lead representative was greeted by a nod from the two night elves. It was yet another manner by which the pair thanked all those who attended—and also hopefully helped put their guests in a good mood for the discussions to come.
Stormwind was one of the last to enter but was among the most impressive. Varian led a crack contingent of his finest soldiers, and he himself was clad in armor that shone like the sun, so polished it was. Across his breastplate was emblazoned a regal lion’s head. At his side was sheathed his legendary blade. Next to him strode Anduin, the prince dressed in a blue and gold suit designed for the royal court, as opposed to war.
Upon reaching Tyrande and Malfurion, Varian gave a sweeping bow. The theatrical flourish was not in keeping with his stolid demeanor, but before Malfurion or the high priestess could decipher what it might mean, the king of Stormwind had moved on.
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