“I’ve waited for this moment!” Garrosh grinned. “Our fight in Ulduar was too brief and without satisfaction, especially since I did not then have Gorehowl to match against your sword. . . .”
“My sentiments exactly!” The king deflected another strike by Gorehowl, both fighters forced to squint as sparks from the clashing weapons flew at their eyes. “I promise not to disappoint you this time . . . except when I take your head. . . .”
The orc laughed. “Your skull will have a place of honor on the gates of Orgrimmar!”
He swung Gorehowl low, seeking to catch Varian by surprise and disembowel the human. The king turned Shalamayne down and, though the angle was awkward, kept the axe from his torso.
Ignorant of the battle waging below him, the magnataur continued his turn as he hunted for the puny human. Varian saw the great leg sweeping toward them. He rolled back as Garrosh, not yet aware of the danger, readied another blow from the wailing axe.
The leg struck the orc. It was only a glancing blow, but it was enough to send Garrosh sprawling.
Unable to see what happened to Garrosh after that, Varian chose to sheathe Shalamayne. He watched as the magnataur settled in place for a moment. When that happened, Varian jumped at the leg.
The moment he grabbed hold of the magnataur’s fur, the monster roared and tried to shake him loose. But before the behemoth could, another figure clung to the other hind leg. The worgen began his climb at the same time as Varian, creating a distraction for the king.
A second worgen jumped onto the same leg as Varian. Several more quickly did the same. They were for the most part those he had commanded to follow him, but who had become momentarily separated by the battle.
Gritting his teeth, Varian pulled himself up. The first part of his plan had come into play, but now he had to follow through. Without the aid of claws, Varian still reached the back of the magnataur long before the first worgen.
The magnataur twisted as much as his upper torso would allow him. His hand came agonizingly near Varian, who drew Shalamayne and cut at the fingers. He was rewarded with the behemoth snatching the bleeding hand back, which allowed several of the worgen to make it to the king.
There was no need for words. The worgen knew their task. Like ants, they raced up and around the magnataur and, wherever their blades, maces, and other mundane weapons proved too unmanageable, began rending the flesh with their claws and even biting. The thick, tough hide of the gigantic creature protected at first, giving the magnataur the chance to try to brush off some of the vermin on him. A half dozen worgen went spilling off the beast, some managing to land well or snag hold of a leg, but others plummeting to their deaths.
But then a worgen managed the first tear in the magnataur, his success followed immediately by another. The bull howled in rage and shook back and forth. With his stocky build, especially his elephantine lower half, the magnataur could no more jump than the mammoth that part of his body resembled. Instead, he abruptly reared up on his hind legs, seeking with the unexpected motion to dislodge his attackers. Two worgen fell free, but Varian and the rest managed to maintain their grips despite this surprise.
More worgen joined those swarming the magnataur. They clambered over his back, his neck, and some of the most daring even tore into his chest. Alone or even if only a dozen or so, they would have been mere annoyances . . . but now they began to take a toll. The bull’s rage took on a hint of frustration, then pain, as he bled from more than two dozen wounds.
Shalamayne proved even better than ordinary swords and claws at cutting through the rough hide. His feet braced, his balance careful, Varian slashed again and again, opening ravines in the magnataur’s back.
Another angry bellow caught his attention. The next nearest magnataur had finally chosen to aid the bull. It was not out of any loyalty between the monsters, but rather a sense of survival. The other magnataur had realized that anything that could potentially harm their leader could next turn on the others.
Varian grinned. The reason for his grin became instantly apparent as more worgen suddenly crawled up the legs of the oncoming magnataur. No longer interested in assisting the dominant bull, the other behemoth tried in vain to clear his own hide of the rapidly increasing numbers of lupine invaders.
A battle horn blowing an Alliance signal made Varian look to the night elves’ lines. Without the magnataur in direct conflict with them, the Sentinels were able to even better regroup. What had been a rout was now more of a balanced battle again.
Varian planned to take it further than that. The worgen, heedless of their danger, did not flinch from attacking the other magnataur. Others of the great pack continued their rush into the midst of the Horde forces and, from the monster’s back, Varian could see the swath of death that the Gilneans had already made through the enemy.
The bull suddenly began to move toward the deeper forest. Varian knew what he planned: the magnataur intended to either seize a partial tree trunk and try to knock the worgen off, or begin rubbing against the standing trees in the hopes of doing the same.
Varian returned to one of the hind legs. There, he found, of all Gilneans, Genn Greymane. “Why are you here?”
“To make sure what you want done is done!” the other monarch roared back.
Varian was actually pleased to see him. “The other hind leg! We need to get down lower while he’s distracted!”
Genn looked puzzled until Varian made a cutting motion. The worgen then smiled. “I’ll take the lead with them!”
They separated without another word. Varian sheathed his sword, then began his descent. What he planned could not have been done until now. The magnataur needed to be focused on the worgen as a whole, not a few who climbed down now instead of up.
As he reached the point he desired, Varian drew Shalamayne. He glanced at the other hind leg. Despite the creature’s movement, the worgen easily clung to the limb. Genn had just reached the same level as Varian.
Without hesitation, and with his other hand and his legs holding him as best they could, Varian Wrynn used Shalamayne to cut as deep and wide a wound as he could in the back of the magnataur’s leg.
The beast roared in sudden agony. It stumbled to the side, nearly dislodging some of the worgen elsewhere. Varian hoped for the best for the brave Gilneans as he readjusted his aim and, instead of slashing, drove Shalamayne deep.
The effect was instantaneous. The bull’s leg collapsed. Sword gripped tightly, Varian threw himself free.
He landed a short distance from the crippled leg. Blood dripped out of the wound, but that was not why the leg could not hold any longer: Varian had expertly severed the tendon.
The magnataur tried to keep moving, but the damaged limb slowed him too much. It gave Genn and the worgen on the other leg the opportunity they needed. With the lord of Gilneas guiding the others, the worgen thoroughly tore into the same area that Varian had. Genn cut deep with his longsword through what his claws could not rend. Already in terrible pain from the first leg, the magnataur belatedly tried to reach back and grab the Gilneans.
With one final cut, Genn finished the tendon. He howled sharply, then jumped from the ruined appendage.
Warned by Genn, the rest of the worgen fled the wounded magnataur. As the last of them leapt to safety, the struggling giant, in the act of trying to seize the king of Gilneas, lost his balance as the second leg gave out.
With an almost mournful roar, the dominant bull tumbled onto his left side. His collision with the ground created a shock wave that tossed many of the combatants in the vicinity from their feet.
But it was not over yet. Varian cried out a wordless challenge and bounded onto the struggling behemoth. He ran toward the head even as worgen once more swarmed the rest of the body.
With fingers still bleeding from Varian’s earlier strike, the magnataur swatted at whatever worgen he could reach. Some of the most eager of the worgen fell prey to the swinging hand, but Varian dodged it, then raced up past the shoulder to th
e neck.
The fearsome visage twisted in his direction, the magnataur’s long, curving tusks sweeping toward Varian and nearly succeeding where the hand had failed. The baleful eyes glared at the puny human who had caused him so much pain. Varian felt the muscles leading to the arm move and knew that the wounded magnataur had come to realize that this was prey finally within easy reach.
With the hand rushing to him, Varian held Shalamayne downward with both hands and stepped off the neck.
As he dropped, he took the sword and jammed it into the soft part of the throat.
The fabled blade cut through as if the flesh there were water. The magnataur’s life fluids drenched Varian as he continued a drop slowed only by how long it took Shalamayne to cut through.
A great gurgle escaped the bull. The behemoth thrashed about, in his death throes threatening to do to Varian what he could not before.
A furred form seized Varian before the arm could crush him. He and his worgen rescuer rolled in a heap, Shalamayne flying a short distance away.
Varian picked himself up. He discovered only then that his rescuer was none other than Genn. The worgen leader lay stunned. Varian knelt by his side and discovered that Genn had struck his head hard. Blood matted the fur there.
Genn’s eyes opened. He stared up at Varian.
“Such fury! Small wonder you are Goldrinn’s chosen champion. . . . ” The worgen leader blinked, his humanity quite evident in his eyes despite his furred form. “I feared for a moment that we’d lose you due to your impetuousness.”
“Your people almost lost you instead.”
“A small price to pay. The worgen have found you. We have found our place through you.”
Varian looked for his sword. “Our place may be the grave. This battle isn’t over.”
Genn sought to rise, then winced and sat back again. He took a deep breath, then tried once more. This time, the worgen leader succeeded.
Varian retrieved Shalamayne, but as he looked up again, he saw something amidst the chaos of the battlefield that made him bare his teeth.
“Don’t follow me, Genn.”
“What—”
Not waiting around to explain, Varian charged back into the struggle. An orc saw Varian and foolishly tried to take him. The lord of Stormwind barely noticed as Shalamayne sank deep in the orc’s chest. A second warrior fell as quickly and just as unnoticed.
Varian only had interest in one opponent, the same one who had earlier hunted him with such obsession, but from whom the human had been separated by circumstance.
Garrosh Hellscream.
The battling armies once more obscured the warchief from Varian’s view, but Gorehowl’s shriek was unmistakable, even from a distance. Varian paused and listened again as the axe sang its song of death, then altered his path.
A horn blared from the Alliance side and suddenly there were lancers on nightsabers everywhere. Horde warriors scattered as the huge cats brought new death among them. One of the lancers came to the rescue of a worgen surrounded by enemies, the lance running through one as the nightsaber ripped apart two others. The worgen readily handled the rest.
A magnataur bellowed, his body almost literally covered with worgen. Several worked at the legs and, even as Varian passed them, one limb gave.
The worgen were everywhere in the battle, darting in and about and slashing with either weapon or claws as the need arose. Ghoulish Forsaken retreated in the face of a foe too swift for them, the undead having already seen several of their number ripped apart or cut to wriggling, useless pieces. Hardened tauren sought to take a stand, but their very agile foes more often than not got under their defenses, striking true and finally pushing the tauren back. The top half of a goblin machine spun around and around as its operator frantically tried to keep two worgen at bay. The Gilneans calmly waited until they had the measure of the mechanism’s movements, then one sprang past the whirling blades, landed behind the driver, and raked the goblin’s back with his claws.
A glaive flew past Varian, the rushing weapon followed by two more. Sentinels on foot now entered the thickest part of the struggle. Some continued to toss their blades over and over while others used the glaives in hand-to-hand combat. With them came Stormwind’s forces, who instantly surged toward where the worgen—and thus King Varian—fought. The outcome of the struggle was far from clear, save that now at least the Alliance had a chance.
Then lines began to re-form on the Horde side. Varian heard Gorehowl once more, this time exceedingly close by.
He picked up his pace, unaware that one of the mounted Sentinel officers saw him. Alerting another, the night elf had her force follow the king of Stormwind. Worgen also began to track behind Varian as he moved quickly across the field despite a path littered with bloody and mangled bodies from both sides.
Still ignorant of the charge he had begun leading, Varian closed on the area where he was certain that he would find Garrosh. Capture or slay the warchief, and the battle ended. That was all that mattered. . . .
A line of orcish archers suddenly rose up from hiding and fired at the oncoming enemy.
Somehow, Varian dodged those shafts that came near him. He had no notion as to what happened behind him. Some of those who followed perished, but others quickly replaced their numbers. There was a sense among the Alliance that a defining moment was upon them, that this charge led by the king of Stormwind would make or break the day.
But on the other side, the Horde was more than ready to meet this new challenge. The deadly flight of arrows preceded a rush of heavily armed and armored warriors both on foot and astride the great dire wolves.
Still paying no heed to those who followed him, Varian saw the enemy ranks as merely impediments. When the first dire wolf reached him, he used Shalamayne to slice through one eye and pierce the brain. As the animal fell forward, Varian stepped up atop its head and all but cut the orc rider in two. A blood elf who grabbed for the lord of Stormwind pulled back with his hand lost. Axes and blades tore at his garments and bloodied his body, but none were more than nuisances, and they slowed him not a bit.
And though he himself did not notice it, did not feel it, both those who followed and those who faced him thought that they saw in the dust and smoke swirling in his vicinity the darting form of a great wolf. Who first shouted the name was a question none could answer. The worgen assumed it was one of their own, for had they not been the first to recognize the king of Stormwind as the Ancient’s champion? The Sentinels believed it either the high priestess or her general, while those dwarves and humans who had accompanied the expedition from Darnassus thought someone of their ranks was responsible.
What mattered was that someone first shouted “Varian!” and then “Goldrinn!” and those names repeated over and over to become the new battle cry. It was a cry that reverberated through the Horde ranks and sent the first true hint of uncertainty through their minds. The victory should have been theirs long ago. The Alliance should have fallen. What was happening now was not how the magnificent plan had been supposed to play out.
And none knew the last more than Garrosh Hellscream. The future that he had envisioned coming to fruition once Ashenvale was in Horde hands now looked so very distant. His ultimate weapon, the crushing power of the magnataur, had now become a much-too-visible image of his master strategy gone awry.
Even as he thought that, another of the giants went crashing to the ground. Worgen swarmed over the fallen behemoth, seeking especially the throat.
One of the Kor’kron pushed close to Garrosh. “Warchief, you risk yourself here! We cannot lose you. . . .”
“Lose me?” Garrosh shoved the insolent guard aside. “I will not hide from battle!”
“But the Alliance—”
The warchief glared, causing the hardened guard to flinch. Garrosh roared another command, sending in reinforcements where the accursed worgen had weakened his forces.
The Alliance’s new battle cry pounded in his head. Garrosh could not ma
ke out exactly what the enemy called, but he could see how it stirred them to greater effort against his warriors. “What is that? What words do they shout?”
Another guard answered. “They cry the name of the human king . . . and with it, Goldrinn . . . their title for the great Lo’Gosh!”
“The wolf Ancient . . .” Garrosh’s gaze searched the struggle. “Lo’Gosh . . . and Varian Wrynn . . .”
And as he once more spoke the human’s name, the orc leader spotted the Alliance’s apparent champion among the enemy encroaching on his position . . . and Varian Wrynn spotted him.
In silent agreement, they pushed toward one another. Garrosh’s personal guard protested, but he slipped in among the other fighters and left his would-be protectors struggling to reach him.
Shalamayne moved as a blur, cutting and slaying any who stood in the king’s way. Brave though orcs, tauren, blood elves, and trolls might be, foolish they were not. There was better chance for glory—and life—against many others.
But one figure did come between the two, Varian his intended hunt, also. His impetuous thrust almost did what so many had failed to do. However, the cut in Varian’s arm was shallow.
Briln, the edge of his axe blade stained with the human’s blood, glared at Varian.
“My magnataur!” roared the former mariner bitterly. “My glory and honor! Look what you’ve done!”
His ferocity forced Varian into momentary retreat. Briln had not survived for so long without being skilled with the axe, as Haldrissa had discovered to her detriment. There were tricks that he could have even taught Garrosh—not that such a thing mattered at the moment to the distraught orc. The magnataur were to have been his way of redeeming himself for all the catastrophes of the journey, especially the lives lost. Now this human, this lone human, was undoing that.
Varian had no time for this insane orc. He knew that Garrosh was very close, even perhaps almost within striking range. Yet, the former mariner would not be denied.
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