World of Warcraft: Wolfheart

by Richard A. Knaak

  There was no choice but to scatter. The final stand of the Silverwing Sentinels collapsed under threat of a force that they could not stop.

  The first huge rock struck the ground just before where the archers had stood. As with the massive trunks, the area shook as if the Cataclysm had come anew. However, the rocks—more focused missiles—raised up huge bits of dirt and stone that bombarded the night elves. A Sentinel near Illiyana dropped dead, her skull caved in by one sharp fragment. Two archers were brought down by a rain of earth.

  Silverwing filled with thunder as the rest of the boulders hit. Sentinels went flying through the air. Two other boulders completely obliterated the glaive throwers and their operators. Nightsabers, driven wild by the catastrophe, ignored their riders’ orders.

  The Horde wasted no time in taking advantage. Garrosh let out a cry of victory, waved the wailing axe, and led the charge himself. A few Sentinels, bowled over by the latest barrage, struggled to rise quick enough to at least put up a defense against the oncoming enemy. They gave a good accounting for themselves, managing to bring more than a few orcs down with their glaives and swords, but none survived long against such overwhelming odds.

  Illiyana was the first to state the terribly obvious. “We cannot stay any longer! We must abandon our position!”

  Although she wanted to deny what her companion said, Su’ura could not. The Sentinels’ numbers were fast dwindling. Several of those still alive were wounded, and against the growing ranks of orcs entering the battle, it would have been murder to order them to stay.

  “Fall back!” Su’ura called. “We make our way beyond the river to Commander Haldrissa!”

  Clearly reluctant, the Sentinels nevertheless obeyed. They gathered those more injured and, under the protective cover of the healthiest archers and warriors, did what none would have ever thought could happen. They abandoned Silverwing Outpost.

  The orcs gave chase. To Su’ura’s relief, there were no orcs mounted on wolves among them. Furthermore, the few nightsabers still manageable helped carry the wounded Sentinels while the rest kept pace as best as possible. Night elves were better built for speed, and finally the pursuers fell behind. Even then, though, Silverwing’s remnants pushed on as hard as they could. The others had to be warned.

  Su’ura knew that something was not quite right about their escape, but was too exhausted and too busy trying to keep the rest of the survivors together to consider the matter. Her injuries were taking their toll and only with Illiyana’s aid could she keep moving. Su’ura glanced at her companion and saw that the other night elf also seemed troubled. While certainly not easy, the defenders’ flight should have been much, much harder.

  However, there was nothing they could do but keep moving and hope that they had, indeed, managed to evade their pursuers. The survivors had to reach Commander Haldrissa.

  She peered over her shoulder. Smoke rose from the outpost. The goblins’ mist had finally faded to nothing this far west and so she had a good view of the black plumes rising over the trees.

  The impossible has happened! Silverwing has fallen. The dread words repeated themselves over and over in her head. Silverwing has fallen. . . .

  Su’ura feared that Ashenvale itself would be next.

  His warriors were chafing to hunt down Silverwing’s remaining defenders, but Garrosh wanted the night elves to escape. It was all part of his grand strategy.

  Briln and the other officers joined him. The former mariner had proven himself worthy in combat and the warchief gave him a nod. Briln grinned.

  “Silverwing is ours,” Garrosh declared with immense satisfaction.

  The others around him cheered. Warriors beyond them took up the cry. The cheer became a single word, or rather, name. Over and over, the warriors shouted out “Garrosh! Garrosh!”

  “The survivors’ll tell ’em what happened,” Briln mentioned when the cheering had finally died down. “The Alliance will have many more fighters when they come to avenge Silverwing. They’ll be ready for blood.”

  Garrosh grinned. “Good. Let them send a thousand fighters—ten thousand.” He waved Gorehowl over his head, the axe keening. The other orcs looked with admiration upon the fabled weapon.

  “Let them send all the warriors the Alliance has.” The warchief eyed the carnage he had wrought. “It will just mean more of them will die.”

  20

  DEPARTURES

  “Welcome, Shandris,” Tyrande greeted as the general entered the chamber where the high priestess and the archdruid had been in grave discussion concerning the events in Ashenvale. “I understand that the readiness of the first expedition is imminent.”

  The general bowed her head. “The Mother Moon makes my network look slow and inefficient. All is as you say. We will be able to leave shortly.”

  Malfurion did not look pleased with this news. “I should have never agreed that you take command of the expedition, Tyrande. I am the one who will go.”

  “No. Elune has decreed that this is my path. It pains me that we will be apart, but in the vision I saw myself there and you here, and knew it the right thing.”

  He grimaced. “The path of the druid sounds easier and easier when I listen to things such as this.”

  Two attendants entered the chamber from another room behind Tyrande. They carried her armor. “I would certainly beg to differ, Mal. If I never have anything to do with the Emerald Dream again, I will be very pleased about that.”

  “All is in readiness, mistress,” one of the attendants informed the high priestess. “We are about to take your belongings aboard and wondered if you would be wearing this for the journey.”

  “No. Elune promises us a safe voyage. It is in Ashenvale where she cannot reveal what awaits.”

  With a grunt, Shandris saluted her. “Judging by the pace of your packing, my news was even more out-of-date than I thought. I suspect it would be good for me to get my own gear aboard. We will be sailing very soon, will we not?”

  The high priestess smiled. “Yes. But only if that meets with your approval.”

  “The sooner we get to Ashenvale, the sooner we send the Horde running.” With that, Shandris saluted Tyrande and Malfurion, then marched off.

  Tyrande’s smile turned into a fearful frown. She quickly dismissed the attendants and, when finally alone with her husband, said, “I truly cannot see what is happening in Ashenvale, Mal. I do not like that . . . but I still know that I have got to be there and you need to be here. I cannot explain why.”

  “No need. I will just grind my teeth and do as you say.”

  Tyrande kissed the archdruid. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Hmmph! You know I do not.”

  “Then thank you for pretending.” With tremendous reluctance, she broke from him. “I must go.”

  “I will not see you off. I promise.” Tyrande had earlier asked him not to be there when the ships sailed. Despite her assurance that Elune knew what had to be done, it was still at least as much a struggle for Tyrande to separate from him as it was Malfurion from her. They had already lost so many centuries in the past. And now, with mortality peering over their shoulders, it was harder than ever to contemplate being in two different lands, especially considering that they did not know what danger might await Tyrande—danger in which Malfurion would be unable to intervene.

  “Oh! What news of the assassins?” she asked as she departed.

  “Maiev has a theory involving the worgen. I doubt its value, but at this point, it would not surprise me to learn anything.”

  That caused her to stop. “The worgen?”

  “I will follow through on it with Maiev. As I said, it is very likely nothing, but we will see. Go now! I will keep Darnassus in one piece while you are away, even if I am not you.”

  “Thank you.” She left before either could find another excuse to delay the separation.

  Malfurion immediately tried to focus on something other than his wife. The murders were the most logical, not to
mention urgent, choice. He had not revealed that Jarod had also indicated there was a need to speak to the worgen, but Maiev’s brother wanted to do it without his sister present. While the former guard captain had not said as much, his style of investigation was quite different from his sister’s. Both were very determined and known for getting the task done. Jarod, though, preferred a less brash, more subtle approach, which was also more to Malfurion’s tastes.

  And with all the chaos going on at the moment, whatever little calm could be maintained was more than for what the archdruid could hope.

  He should have waited for Malfurion, but Jarod could not contain his impatience any longer. Nor did he think that he could keep his intentions hidden from Maiev. That was why Jarod was already on his way to the area where he knew that he would find the group of worgen whom he had previously encountered. More important, he would find that one particular worgen.

  Maiev had some other avenue of investigation that she wanted to pursue and had taken Neva with her, so Jarod was able to slip away fairly easily. His sister still did not entirely think him necessary to her work, but so long as he did nothing to interfere, anything he might accidentally discover she would accept.

  Someday, perhaps we will understand one another better, Jarod thought as he neared the territory where he had last confronted the worgen.

  He sensed the faint smell that he associated with the worgen. A musky sweat. The scent was faint, but that did not mean that the worgen were not nearby.

  “Night elf . . .”

  Even closer than I thought. . . . Jarod turned to face the worgen who had spoken. He did not recognize the markings, at least not as those of the one he sought.

  “What do you do here, again?” the worgen growled.

  So this is at least one of those from before. That pleased Jarod, for it saved time in having to explain just who he was. There were enough other things that he might have to explain.

  “I would like to talk with one of you. The one who was in charge the last time I was here.”

  The worgen cocked his head. He sniffed the air, and Jarod realized that the Gilnean was taking in the intruder’s scent, perhaps even marking whether there was the sweat one associated with lying or fear.

  “I know of whom you speak. He’ll not want to talk with you.”

  “I would just like to have the chance. Let him say so and I will leave.”

  The worgen’s ears flattened and his brow furrowed. Finally, reluctantly, he gestured the direction Jarod had been heading. “That way. Not far.”

  When the lupine figure did not move, the night elf turned and started walking as indicated. Although he did not hear the worgen behind him, he knew that the creature was following.

  They climbed a short hill, then descended the other side. Jarod could not help but feel that more eyes now watched him from beyond the surrounding trees.

  Without warning, another worgen leapt into sight in front of them. Having expected something, Jarod did not even flinch as the newcomer first landed on all fours, then sleekly rose to face the night elf.

  It was the worgen for whom he had been searching. The fur was unmistakable. What was also unmistakable was the worgen’s displeasure at Jarod’s arrival.

  “You . . . you shouldn’t have ever come back here. . . . ” To the worgen who had led the night elf to this place, he growled, “And you should know better!”

  The other Gilnean’s ears flattened and a slight whining sound escaped him. The second worgen dismissed him with a curt wave that displayed for Jarod the long, so very sharp claws.

  The chief worgen then turned his gaze toward the trees. Ears pricking up, he let out a slight snarl.

  Jarod heard nothing, but a few seconds later the worgen relaxed slightly.

  “We’re alone now,” the worgen announced with confidence.

  The night elf did not ask how the other could be certain. He trusted in the worgen’s senses. “I appreciate your talking with me—”

  “I’ve not said I would! You should’ve known the last time you were here that you weren’t wanted!”

  As he spoke, the worgen’s muzzle neared Jarod’s face. One snap from the savage jaws could have easily ended the conversation—provided the Gilnean could have accomplished that before Jarod’s sword impaled him. That the night elf kept the blade at his side and not in his hand in no manner gave the worgen advantage; Jarod’s reflexes had not slowed that much over the millennia.

  As if sensing that he could not cow the night elf, the worgen pulled his muzzle back slightly. The two eyed each other for a moment.

  “I am sorry,” Jarod finally replied calmly. “I came alone so as to not disturb matters any more than necessary. If I can speak with you for a moment, you will not hear from me again.”

  The worgen snarled but finally nodded. “Ask what you want quickly!”

  “My name is Jarod Shadowsong—”

  “I care nothing for your name! Ask your damned questions!”

  The former guard captain nodded. “You did not say anything about being the one to rescue me from that trap.”

  “Which should have been enough to tell you I wanted nothing more to do with it. It was a moment of weakness. . . . ” But in the worgen’s tone there was the first hint of sympathy. “I couldn’t leave you there, though.”

  “For which I will always owe you. But tell me, why were you there in the first place?”

  The Gilnean looked away. “We know of the spellcasters’ murders. We know that we are believed by some to be the culprits! My lord ordered otherwise, but some of us decided to seek answers ourselves.”

  “And did you find anything?”

  The worgen glared at the heavens. “Yes. We found we die quite easily, too, when snared by traps like the one that caught you!”

  Jarod started. “One of yours perished?”

  “The trap was not exactly the same. As with yours, it was all but invisible, only the telltale sign of withered foliage where the trap was set revealing its presence. That was how I discovered the one that caught you. This trait we learned, unfortunately, in retrospect from the loss we suffered.”

  “I am sorry.”

  His companion nodded in acceptance of Jarod’s sympathy. “We could not free her in time. Like yours, it first tortured, yes, but then it made certain that if one managed to escape, a second element would seize the heart from within.” He bared his teeth in remembrance of the foul deed. “We found later that her heart had literally exploded.”

  “By Elune!”

  “You see now why I did what I could to release you.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  The worgen again bared his teeth. “Not all that far from where you met your disaster. That was why I was near: I wanted to study the place where she died to see if there was any clue that would help us avenge her.”

  “And was there?”

  “The only clue was the trap that nearly did you in, night elf.” The Gilnean’s ears flattened. “There’s no more I can tell you.”

  The finality in the Gilnean’s tone made it clear that Jarod should not try to push. The night elf understood. “I appreciate what you have told me. It should help.”

  “I doubt it. Your sister seems set on blaming us.”

  “Maiev will see that what needs to be done will be done,” Jarod replied somewhat defensively. “She has always upheld her duty to our people.”

  “But we are not your people.” With that, the worgen stepped back to depart.

  Jarod started to do the same, but paused. “If you think of anything more, you know my name.”

  The worgen snorted . . . then hesitated. “And mine’s Eadrik. I trust you with that on the assumption that you’ll keep it to yourself.”

  “Of course.”

  The Gilnean vanished among the trees. Jarod stood there for a moment, wondering whether he had accomplished anything. The worgen’s words milled around in his head as he tried to make sense of it all.

  Tried to make se
nse of it all . . . and prayed that no other Highborne would be assassinated before he could.

  21

  A LINE DRAWN

  The scouts came rushing back to Haldrissa, who suddenly discovered that she had dozed off in the saddle. Fortunately, neither Denea nor any of the other officers noticed, as they were more caught up in the startled looks of the returning Sentinels.

  Haldrissa made a quick count and came up two short. Yet, although the scouts rode with much urgency, they did not move as if the Horde were on their heels.

  Unfortunately, the news they brought might as well have been such.

  Silverwing had fallen.

  The scouts had only sketchy information. It was not until a few moments later that those who could much better attest to the disaster arrived.

  The once-proud Silverwing Sentinels had been reduced to perhaps a quarter of their strength, and many of those were wounded. Among their survivors was the acting commander, Su’ura, who related the terrifying tale of the outpost’s fall.

  Haldrissa grimly listened to the news, all the while thinking that the end of the world as she knew it had finally come. Even the Cataclysm had not touched her this way. Silverwing was gone.

  The Horde was sweeping over Ashenvale . . . with Garrosh Hellscream himself leading the way.

  “We should ride to meet them now!” snapped Denea. “They will never expect us to be so close already! We will catch them by surprise!”

  Several of the other younger Sentinels voiced their support. Haldrissa noticed that Su’ura—no coward—was not among them. Nor was the “scout” who stood near her, and the senior commander would have expected such a one to be the first to demand they turn and fight.

  “No,” Haldrissa quietly announced. “We will not.”

  Denea gaped. “But the whole purpose of our march was to meet up with Silverwing in order to better secure a line of defense against the Horde—”

  “There was more to it than that, but the point is . . . Silverwing is no more. That changes everything. We cannot properly set up a good line of defense in this region, and attacking the Horde right now would play into their hands. You heard her report and you know what we ourselves experienced. The Horde has new strategies, and if Garrosh Hellscream is at the forefront, they will have more to throw at us than what we have seen thus far.”