World of Warcraft: Wolfheart

by Richard A. Knaak

  The male moved on to Neva. Her face was a mask. He sniffed at her, albeit in a more perfunctory manner. He turned from Neva. Jarod felt as if the worgen already recognized her scent.

  When the apparent leader stopped at Maiev, there was a noticeable pause. As with Neva, the worgen seemed to recognize something in Jarod’s sister, as if they had met previously. The lips of the creature pulled back, revealing better the sharp teeth.

  Fearing for Maiev, Jarod stepped forward. That brought the leader’s attention back to him. Jarod then noticed that, despite looking as they did, the worgen still wore clothes. Most of them were loose-fitting or open and in general kept in good condition. The garments made for a contrast to the raw force the worgen radiated.

  “Come to spy on us again . . . ,” the male growled, his voice otherwise surprisingly normal. “Do we amuse you?”

  It took Jarod a moment to understand that the question was focused at Maiev. She smiled defiantly at the leader. “We are here in the performance of our duty to the high priestess. You know that.”

  “You found nothing to learn here last time.”

  “Things change.”

  The leader’s ears twitched in annoyance. “The king will speak with your high priestess and the archdruid.”

  “Feel free.”

  The worgen as a whole growled. They sounded more frustrated than angry, however. This argument had evidently taken place once before.

  “You say things change,” the leader rasped. “What?”

  “My brother here was nearly killed by a trap set for the Highborne.” Maiev did not explain the Highborne to the worgen, confirming what she had said earlier about their being aware of the spellcasters’ existence. “He was chasing a worgen at the time.”

  The male did not look at Jarod. “Proof?”

  “We found fur caught in the bark of the tree where my brother was lying.”

  This garnered a derisive laugh from the entire pack. “Many animals in the forest.” He displayed his claws. “The hunting is good.”

  “So long as you are only hunting deer and the like, not certain other prey,” countered Maiev.

  The leader turned to Jarod again. The long muzzle came within an inch of the night elf’s nose. Jarod could smell the carnivore’s thick breath, but did not show any distaste for the odor.

  “Tell me,” the worgen demanded. “You saw this one of ours?”

  “No . . . I was in too much pain.”

  “Hmmph. You would be feeling no pain at all anymore if he had attacked you as you claim.”

  Jarod met the gaze steadily. “I never said he attacked me. He pulled me free of the trap. I do not know how, but he did. He was even sorry that I got caught in it.”

  The ears of his questioner twitched in thought. The worgen leader remained in front of Jarod, but glanced at Maiev. “A different story from what you hinted. So a worgen on the hunt happens nearby. Out of respect to the high priestess and archdruid, he retreats when discovering night elves so close. When a fool follows, he even rescues the fool, and for that we’re judged monsters. . . .”

  There were accompanying growls from the others. Jarod tensed, expecting to have to try to fight his way free even despite the impossible odds.

  “We are only investigating every possible situation,” Maiev countered. “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear, right?”

  The worgen leader bared his teeth again. “You wish to question us, you come to us. It’s dangerous to sneak about here. Worse things than traps for magi. Younger worgen can get caught up in the hunt; they might leap before they realize that it’s not a deer.” His ears straightened. “By then . . . it could be too late.”

  He made a dismissive gesture with one clawed hand. The other worgen moved back from the night elves. Jarod kept a wary eye on the worgen until they had moved a sufficient distance from the night elves, then joined Maiev and Neva.

  The leader of the worgen party snarled. As one, the lupine creatures slipped back among the trees, moving as silently as any skilled night elf.

  Jarod exhaled. “That was too close.”

  “We were never in any real danger,” his sister countered confidently. “For all their bluster, they are just a bunch of humans.”

  He grew angry. “Humans with claws and very sharp teeth—and you knew that they would come for us!”

  “Easier than following after them. Think of it as a test. I wanted to see their reaction when I mentioned what happened to you. I saw enough. They know something. More than they realize.”

  “I would have liked to have known what you planned.”

  “You might have changed your mind in coming. I wanted you here. Besides”—she slipped her hand behind her; when Maiev brought it forward again, her brother saw that she was now armed—“we were not so helpless as you thought.”

  Neva imitated Maiev, revealing that both females were armed.

  Jarod snorted. This was the sister he remembered. Maiev would do anything to see her duty through to the end. It was something to remember while he helped discover the ones behind the assassinations of the Highborne.

  “It is likely a night elf behind this,” he said with continued irritation. “Our people have a much better reason than the worgen to want the Highborne dead.”

  Maiev began to head back toward Darnassus. “Oh, you are probably right on that. This will lead back to night elves. But the worgen . . . they need watching, too, do you not think?”

  Neva gave Jarod a coy smile as she followed Maiev. After a moment the former guard captain trailed after. He was still angry with his sibling for her recklessness, although in retrospect he could see from her colored history how such a trait could have developed over the millennia. In some ways he suspected that her recklessness had been the difference between life and death for Maiev.

  But I will not stand by while you do that again, Jarod swore. If they were to work together, Maiev would have to understand that her brother would be no one’s fool, not even hers. Their success—and possibly the stable existence of their people—depended on her understanding him.

  It suddenly struck him that his anger at his sister made him feel more alive than any other moment after Shalasyr’s death. Aware of Jarod’s relationship with Maiev, Shalasyr would have found that amusing.

  Ahead of him, Maiev muttered something to Neva, then chuckled. That stirred up another subject, one that he doubted Maiev would have found so funny. Jarod had learned something of interest during the encounter with the worgen—something his sister would have liked to know.

  He had gradually recognized the voice of the leader of the group. It had been that of his rescuer. Jarod had not immediately made the connection due to the fact that when this worgen had rescued him, he had done so in his human form, using fingers rather than claws to grasp the injured night elf. He had also whispered then, as opposed to the gruffer, more commanding tone used during this encounter.

  But even more important, there had been a look in the worgen’s human eyes that had indicated that he, in turn, had understood that Jarod recognized him. Even despite that, the worgen had ordered them released.

  Jarod intended to find out why . . . and when he did, it would be without the impediment of his sister. Maiev would just have to wait until her brother returned from the worgen encampment.

  Of course, that was assuming that they would let him leave alive a second time.

  17

  INTO THE FOREST

  The next day came, and still the outpost was not attacked. Haldrissa would have taken heart save for the fact that by now she knew better. The Horde was merely implementing the next stage of whatever plan its commander in Ashenvale had in mind. She already knew that whoever was in charge was high among the leadership, certainly picked by the new warchief, Garrosh Hellscream.

  An hour after dawn, the gates swung wide open and a force of mounted Sentinels supported by archers and warriors on foot rushed out to confront whoever might be there. Haldrissa led the cha
rge herself, her nightsaber roaring eagerly as the scent of the orcs reached it.

  But although they found traces of the archers, there were no actual sightings of the Horde. It was as if they had melted back into shadow once their foul task had been accomplished.

  Denea was blunt in her assessment. “We should have charged out during the night. I knew we should have.”

  Haldrissa ignored the slight to her decision. The commander considered her options again. Of all the outposts, the two most significant were her own—in great part due to its central proximity to the rest of those lining Alliance-held lands—and Silverwing. Silverwing was unique. It was a bastion of defense in, of all places, hostile territory, the Horde’s outpost of Splintertree not all that far to the northeast. Even when the orcs had pushed forward elsewhere, Silverwing had prevailed. It maintained itself through the bravery of its fighters and a thin patch of ground connecting it to the rest of the Alliance territory.

  There had been no contact with Silverwing, but that did not mean that it had fallen. The smoke that they had seen from their position had been more to the north. Silverwing was slightly more south and across the Falfarren River. Haldrissa suspected that the smoke came from one of the lesser outposts, likely Forest Song. She hoped that the defenders there had managed to hold, especially since she could do nothing for them at the moment.

  The fact that there had been no hint of Silverwing’s downfall encouraged the commander, but she knew that she had to act fast. If they could link up with Silverwing, they would present the Horde with a more solidified front.

  There was no need to wait for word from Darnassus. It was clear that Aradria had perished even if her body had not been discovered by the supply wagons. There would be no help until communication could be reestablished and that would take some time. She already had three nightsaber riders heading west, but suspected that whatever the Horde commander had in mind would be unleashed before the capital could send help.

  “Silverwing . . . Denea, I need our force divided in two, one to defend here, another to march with us to Silverwing. This moment.”

  “We ride there today?”

  “That depends on you.” Haldrissa did not care if Denea took any offense at her words or tone. The commander had no more patience, and her second had to be reminded who was still in charge.

  Perhaps in order to prove that Haldrissa had underestimated her, Denea had the outpost’s contingent divided up within the hour. Even still, it felt like much too long. The commander kept waiting for the Horde to suddenly attack again. They did not, but whether that was a good sign, she could not yet say.

  She considered leaving Denea in charge, but chose instead to appoint one of the other officers. Haldrissa would need her most efficient officers at the front, and Denea was certainly the best of those, ambitions aside.

  The column moved out cautiously, with scouts riding ahead and reporting back on a regular basis. The only traces of the Horde were footprints, and those tended to be so mixed in direction it was difficult to follow any trail from them.

  Haldrissa did not like the unpredictability of the Horde strategy of late. This was not the type of war that she was used to fighting. Whoever coordinated the enemy’s efforts constantly left her guessing. She could only hope that her own decisions would counter whatever they planned.

  Though the world has changed so much, at least war should remain a comfortable constant, Haldrissa mused darkly. She wished that they had already reached Silverwing. Knowing that they could then make a proper stand against whatever the orcs wanted to throw at them would go a great way toward easing her mind. Give her a clean, straightforward battle with all the accompanying traditions, not perplexing tricks such as the Horde was suddenly using.

  Give her war as it was meant to be.

  There was war . . . and Varian could not have cared less.

  His son had left him. Anduin had left him.

  How his opponents in the arenas would have mocked the onetime gladiator for his mournful state . . . had any of them survived. The great Lo’Gosh teary-eyed for his child.

  A messenger had delivered the news of war to Varian and his people at the same time that the other members of the Alliance had been notified. The high priestess had some notion of rushing a force to Ashenvale and had asked the others for whatever assistance they could muster on short notice. Naturally Stormwind would help, but that did not matter in the least to Varian. Azeroth meant nothing to him. Anduin had left him . . . and he knew that it was his fault that the boy had.

  This was just the latest failure on his part, the latest proof that he would have been better off having remained bereft of his memory and fighting day after day for his life against the other dregs of the world. Better yet, he should have died when his father had; then Tiffin would have never married him and been condemned as another victim of his cursed life. Anduin would have been safe, too, for he—

  He would have never existed.

  Swearing at himself, Varian downed the last of the wine. He yearned for some good Stormwind whiskey or something not so sweet as night elven wine. Still, enough of it would drown out his thoughts for a time.

  That essential mission in mind, Varian ordered his frustrated guards to find him more wine or dwarven ale. He, in turn, sat in a chair facing the quarters where Anduin had recently slept, and buried himself deep in his self-recriminations.

  True to his word, the prince had left with the draenei. Varian’s own departure had been temporarily delayed. He did not want to return to Stormwind without his son . . . not yet.

  I’ve lost him, Tiffin. . . . I lost you and now I’ve lost him. . . .

  There was a knock at the door. His eyes still fixed on Anduin’s quarters, the king frowned. His servants had orders to bring whatever alcohol they found right to him. That meant ignoring protocol about entering the presence of their ruler. The sooner he could drink himself deeper into oblivion, the better.

  “Come in, damn you!” he roared when they still did not enter. “And bring what drink you’ve found quickly!”

  The door opened at last, but the voice that followed was one of the last Varian wanted to hear. “I have brought no spirits, but thought there might be a way to raise yours.”

  The king still did not turn away from his son’s quarters. “You’ll forgive me if I’m in no mood for company, not even yours.”

  Malfurion walked around Varian, blocking his view. “Anduin would not want you like this, especially because of some argument with him. Neither would your wife.”

  The king frowned. “Please leave, Archdruid.”

  Undaunted, Malfurion said, “If it is not a talk you desire, perhaps you would like to find a way to more directly vent your frustrations.”

  Despite himself, Varian was interested. “If you’ve something to keep me from thinking for a while, name it.”

  “Something much better than all this drinking. A hunt.”

  “A hunt?” He sat up. “You, a druid, want to take me on a hunt? Doesn’t that go against your beliefs?”

  “The hunt is an essential part of nature. It keeps the balance. We do not condemn the bear—or the wolf—for its part in it, and if men, night elves, and others take but what they need and respect where that bounty comes from, there is no contradiction. Azeroth nourishes us and, in return, those of my calling aid it in whatever little fashion we can.”

  “‘Whatever little fashion’ . . . I know the extent of your power, Archdruid.”

  Malfurion shrugged. “I have been blessed with gifts, but they come with responsibility.”

  Varian nodded. “The price of true leadership is to understand that all the advantages come with heavy responsibility. I know that too well.”

  “Enough of this talk, though. I only came to offer you respite through a hunt. If you are not interested . . .”

  The king rose. “Oh, I’m interested.”

  “Good! We can gather your men—”

  This earned the archdruid a snort of deri
sion. “I’m not like some of those overfed monarchs who play at hunting by having a hundred beaters frighten some poor beast out of the bush so that he and his pathetic courtiers can surround it and either hack it to death or fill it with enough arrows to make it look like a pincushion! That’s not hunting; that’s true barbarism that even the orcs wouldn’t accept! No . . . I prefer to hunt alone, with just my bow and my stealth. If that’s enough, I bring home food. If not, the beast proves himself my better.”

  “A reasonable point.” The night elf gestured to the door. “Then it will be just you and me.”

  “You’re going to hunt too? You can call the beasts right to you! What sort of hunting is that?”

  The archdruid simply smiled. “You do not know me if you think I would abuse my power in that manner. Come, we will see who fares best.”

  Eager to do whatever he could to forget Anduin’s flight, Varian did not hesitate any longer. He seized his bow and quiver from where they were stored and, with the night elf leading, gratefully abandoned his quarters.

  As they departed, two of his servants returned. Both had been successful in their efforts to procure wine or ale.

  “Leave those inside,” the king decided, just in case the night elf’s offer proved insufficient to fix what was ailing him. “The archdruid and I are going for a walk. Alone.”

  The guards eyed the bow but, as usual, did not protest. Varian forgot them as he kept pace with the night elf. Already, doubts were creeping into him. Alone, he might find the hunt to his liking, but if he had to have the night elf at his side at all times, he could not pursue his quarry as he needed. That would only serve to stifle Varian.

  He was ready to turn around and head back to the wine and ale when at last they reached a segment of the forest far from any visible night elven structure. Malfurion let his guest view the area in silence.

  “Looks like good hunting territory,” Varian admitted. He eyed the archdruid, who was only armed with a staff. “You plan on using that thing?”