The last of the members of the Alliance seated themselves. Tyrande looked about, saw that all awaited what was next to come. Sharing a hopeful look with the archdruid, she rose.
“Sisters and brothers of the Alliance, comrades and friends, I call for a vote to open this gathering!”
In the same order that they had entered, the representatives cast their vote as she requested. The motion was a formality and passed without any dissension.
“My friends,” Tyrande went on. “It is with gratitude that the archdruid and I greet all of you! That you have chosen to join together at this summit is a true sign of hope in a troubled time.”
There were murmurs of agreement from some of the members and their parties.
“We have many grave matters to discuss,” the high priestess continued. “Many of you have suffered dearly since the madness of Deathwing tore Azeroth asunder, and are rightfully concerned that the Alliance might demand more from your people before the lands can heal themselves. I cannot promise that this will not happen.”
Now there were wary glances. Yet, all respected Tyrande and her husband so much that no one saw fit to voice their concerns on that very subject . . . for the moment.
Malfurion’s hand touched hers. Tyrande looked at the entrance. She saw no one, but the archdruid had clearly noted some signal.
“But before we can begin those discussions in earnest, we must ensure that we do so with every possible valued member present! And today we have those who would seek to become one of us, who would seek to share in our efforts to strengthen the Alliance. . . .”
A horn sounded . . . and immediately after, the anthem of Gilneas played.
Heads turned with anticipation toward the entrance. Tyrande and Malfurion glanced at King Varian, but his expression still revealed nothing.
A stillness fell over the audience as the first figure stepped into sight. Genn Greymane. He himself bore the banner of Gilneas—a red design consisting of a circle with three vertical lines akin to lances and another line bisecting the circle itself, all set in a field of gray—into the assembly, carrying it with a pride and strength worthy of a warrior much younger. In contrast to the splendor displayed by many in the audience, Genn wore the same simple, loose garments that he had during the banquet, and when the first of his people followed him into the assembly, they were seen to be dressed similarly.
Where there had only been a small band at the banquet, with Genn now marched a number that not coincidently matched the strength of Stormwind’s contingent. Genn obviously desired to show the others that he could offer the Alliance a powerful ally.
Yet, although the men and women of Gilneas looked to be sturdy of build and clearly willing fighters, they were noticeably unarmed. Even the pole upon which their banner fluttered had no point at the top, meaning that it could not represent any sort of weapon. It was as if the Gilneans sought to prove to their counterparts that they had no use for such.
Genn paused before the night elf leaders, acknowledging them as those before had. Then, in a change from the entrance of the other kingdoms, he took the pole and thrust the bottom hard into the ground.
“Gilneas stands before you!” the king called to all around him and his followers. “Gilneas stands before you to atone for its sins by offering its might to any and all of the Alliance who need it! No truer brother will there be to any in their time of distress!”
He stepped back to join Eadrik and the others. The Gilneans formed an arc facing every direction except the entrance, pointedly making certain that no matter where one sat in the assembly, he or she would be viewing some member of Genn’s band more or less in full.
“And lest anyone think us of weak use in battle, of being unable to defend our brothers beside us, we now hope to dispel that misconception. . . .”
With that, Genn and his people transformed.
Their bodies swelled, growing a third again in girth and height. Although originally loose-fitting, the Gilneans’ clothing still proved too tight for this shift, and shirts and jerkins ripped loudly. Hair sprouted over the Gilneans’ arms, legs, chests, and faces, spreading so thick that it became fur. Beneath the fur came the sounds of cracking and popping, of bones shifting and tendons stretching into positions of which they should not have been accustomed. Their arms and legs twisted as their forms contorted, the legs turning sleeker, more akin to those of a swift predator. Each figure became hunched, but in that manner of a powerfully built beast.
As the audience watched, rapt, the Gilneans’ hands stretched and the nails grew into long, savage claws. Yet, that paled in comparison to the astounding metamorphosis of their faces. It was not just that the ears narrowed and stretched but that the mouth and nose pushed forward, melded together, and created a muzzle filled with sharp teeth capable of rending through flesh without trouble.
The worgen stood before the Alliance.
The lupine figures held their ground, although there was in them the evident urge to run, to hunt. They did not turn from the gazes of the crowd, instead staring confidently back.
Genn Greymane, his chest heaving from adrenaline, eyed Malfurion and Tyrande. They nodded in turn. There was no greater way to emphasize the worth of the Gilneans to the Alliance than for the refugees to reveal their full strength.
The Gilneans had not always been among the worgen, though, and not all of their people were affected. Many were, however . . . and it was, to Malfurion’s shame, he himself who was in great part to blame.
It had begun with other druids, those experimenting with the pack form. They had called upon the power to shift into large wolves, only to discover too late that in these forms they lost control of themselves. Blood had been shed.
Malfurion was one of those nearly lost, the aid of the demigod Cenarius all that saved him. Finally aware of the threat, Malfurion had banned the form’s use. However, unbeknownst to him, a group of druids had gathered in secret to continue its efforts. Using the legendary artifact called the Scythe of Elune, they had sought to tame the wolf form . . . only to have the scythe transform them into the first of the worgen.
Bringing the savage creatures under control, Malfurion dismissed the advice of others who demanded their destruction and cast the worgen into a pocket dimension within the Emerald Dream, where they lay in a taming sleep under the tree Daral’nir.
That was supposed to have been the end of the tragic matter—and it would have been, if not for the human archmage Arugal. Under the orders of a desperate Genn seeking aid against the Scourge outside Gilneas’s great wall, the mage had pulled the worgen to the kingdom . . . and once the curse of the worgen had entered, it spread through the populace swiftly.
Yet, the Gilneans had discovered the means to control their feral nature and turn what had been evil into—at least to a point—a force to benefit themselves in regards to not only the Alliance but also the eventual liberation of their homeland.
“We are Gilneas,” Genn Greymane rumbled, his voice still distinctly his own, albeit now with a guttural addition to it. “We are the worgen. . . .”
The king howled.
The sound was not meant to disturb or frighten, only to again point out the power of him and his people. In that, it served well, for even the dour Dark Irons looked with great respect and interest at the might of the worgen.
As Genn’s howl reached its crescendo, the others with him added their voices. Yet, even that paled when from beyond the summit, from deep within the forest, other worgen voices answered the call.
Their combined howl lasted but a scant few seconds, yet that was long enough for the moment to burn into the memories of most there. As Genn ceased—and his people near and far immediately did the same—the king of Gilneas concluded, “We humbly submit ourselves before our brethren for full membership in the Alliance. . . .”
No one responded at first, so unsettling was the sight. Rising, Malfurion pointed at the worgen. “A few of you know the old tales of the worgen and their ferocity! You know the stories of thei
r unthinking evil! To both you and those unfamiliar with the stories, what stands before you has little link to either legends or the past! These fighters of Gilneas have tamed the curse! That which was once a deadly threat is now forevermore a force for good, a force for the Alliance!”
The archdruid’s words rang throughout the assembly. Genn and the worgen waited as the emissaries digested both what Malfurion had said and, more importantly, what they had just witnessed.
Murmuring rose among the representatives, and they quickly became more animated.
Kurdran suddenly rose. “Wildhammer welcomes the strength o’ the worgen . . . and o’ Gilneas!”
Tervosh immediately followed. “Theramore seconds that welcome!”
At these pronouncements, applause burst from many sections of the gathering, applause for Gilneas. Several of the emissaries and members of their parties saluted Genn’s people in one manner or another.
Tyrande, touching her husband’s hand, took command of events again. “You have witnessed the might of Gilneas and heard its request to enter back into the Alliance!” the high priestess called, echoing Malfurion’s sentiments. “I say that, after seeing this display and if there are no objections, we shall begin a vote for approval immediately!”
The high priestess let her gaze sweep over the assembly, focusing no longer on Stormwind than she did any other faction. There was no objection, and even Varian seemed in a reasonable mood.
“I call for a vote by acclamation!” the archdruid next proclaimed, following the course of action that they had discussed previous to the gathering. “A single voice to acknowledge the welcome of the worgen into the Alliance! All those in favor—”
The chorus of ayes began to resound, their enthusiasm matching that of the worgen’s earlier howl. Malfurion and Tyrande glanced down at Genn, who gave them a grateful look in turn.
And then, from where the contingent of Stormwind sat, King Varian silently stood.
The effect was immediate. The shouting died. The two night elves and Genn stared at Varian, whose face revealed nothing of his intentions.
“Members of the Alliance, my good night elf hosts, I’d like to speak.”
Even Prince Anduin appeared uncertain as to what his father planned, although he did not seem worried, only curious.
Tyrande signaled for attention, then said, “Stormwind has asked to speak. Please go on, King Varian.”
The ex-gladiator and slave brooded for a moment. Finally he said, “Everyone knows that there’s no love lost between Stormwind and Gilneas. Everyone knows why.”
Utter quiet fell upon the assembly. Genn’s expression was unreadable as he waited for Varian to go on, but his ears lay flat in concern.
A Sentinel suddenly stood behind the high priestess. Tyrande touched Malfurion’s hand again, and he nodded to indicate that he would keep the proceedings going. The archdruid understood that whatever it was that would make someone interrupt the high priestess at such a delicate time had to be as significant as the murders of the two Highborne.
A third? he wondered. Praying that it was not so, the archdruid leaned forward so as to indicate to Varian that while Tyrande might have to leave, it was no slight to Stormwind.
Varian cocked his head as if to say he took no insult from the high priestess’s departure. The lord of Stormwind then continued, “The benefit that an ally such as Gilneas offers us is obvious. While our skills in combat more than match those of the orcs and their allies, there’s always been a hunger that the Horde has thrived upon that we—so civilized—no longer seem to have. The worgen offer us that righteous hunger to overcome all obstacles in battle, to keep the Alliance from splintering or merely sitting back as the orcs take one land after another. . . .”
Genn’s eyes widened, and even Malfurion could not help but feel his hope stir at such a speech.
“I considered damned long and hard on this, I promise you,” Varian told all. “Such an ally can help us easily hold the Horde’s ambitions at bay, maybe even push them back!” The king indicated Genn and the Gilneans. “An ally of such honor, of such courage, I’d be more than pleased to fight beside!”
His words brought cheer. Even the worgen could no longer restrain themselves, several of the younger ones giving out short howls.
Varian now turned his attention to Malfurion. “Archdruid! You called before for a vote by acclamation, a vote I interrupted! My apologies for letting that happen! I’d meant to ask to speak sooner. . . .”
Smiling, Malfurion answered, “I would be happy to call for it again, King Varian—”
“That won’t be necessary.” The human monarch’s expression went through a stunning transformation. A dark cast spread over it as Varian eyed Genn Greymane.
Varian spat in the Gilnean’s direction.
“Calling for it again would be a waste of time,” the lord of Stormwind snarled at his counterpart below, “for I’d never give consent to allow these mongrels into the Alliance!”
Shouts of consternation erupted, especially among the worgen. The one that was Eadrik took a step toward Varian, but Genn grabbed the young warrior’s shoulder and pulled him back. The two worgen bared their teeth at one another, Eadrik quickly becoming cowed.
“Honor and trust! These are what the Alliance needs, not these beasts that even when they paraded as men were lacking in both! What happens if they choose to cut themselves off once more? Will they even bother to give us warning? Can we trust them even to do that?” Varian snapped his fingers, and his retinue joined him on their feet, Anduin the last and most hesitant. “As I’ve already said to many, I find nothing worthy, nothing honorable, in this pack of hounds . . . and so I will never vote aye to their admission back into the fold!”
And with that, Varian led Stormwind out of the summit as chaos erupted among the other representatives and Malfurion Stormrage watched all his hopes crumble before his eyes.
15
CHOICES
“Everyone! Remain seated, please!”
The crowd, though, did not hear the archdruid. Everywhere, the various factions of the Alliance argued with one another as to what had just happened and what it meant to the summit as a whole. The voice of one night elf was easily drowned out by such a din.
But Malfurion Stormrage was more than merely a night elf and more than merely a druid.
Deafening thunder shook the assembly, and a single brilliant bolt of lightning right before the archdruid’s position guaranteed that all attention returned to him.
“You know my feelings on this situation,” he said to them. “And I can assure all of you that this is not over.”
“You know my feelings on this situation,” he said to them. “And I can assure all of you that this is not over.”
No one argued, although in many eyes he read disagreement. Malfurion looked to Genn Greymane to reassure him, only to find that the worgen had slipped out as swiftly and silently as the wolves they resembled.
Concealing his own dismay, the archdruid pressed: “I will attend to this matter. For the moment, I call for a vote to end the summit for today and invite all representatives and their retinues to partake of the splendor of Darnassus.”
“Sounds like a good notion tae me! Me throat’s parched from all this politickin’,” Kurdran bellowed. “If it means gettin’ some ale an’ food faster, it’s got me vote!”
The dwarf’s lusty response eased the situation, and the vote to end for the day passed without further question as to whether there would be a second day.
As the assembly dispersed, Malfurion summoned one of the Sentinels flanking his and Tyrande’s seats. “Did the high priestess inform you as to why she had to leave?”
“No, Archdruid.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“The temple, I believe.”
Malfurion thought for a moment. “Please take a message to her. Tell her that I will be there as soon as I can, but that I must go speak with the king of Stormwind. Tell her that he voted
against Gilneas, but I believe there is still hope. Do you have that?”
“Yes, Archdruid!”
“Go now, then!”
The Sentinel saluted sharply, then rushed off. Malfurion took a breath, using the moment to organize his thoughts.
The vision insists that Varian is the one, the archdruid thought with much frustration. Perhaps he is, but the vision does not have to deal with his obstinacy! He must be convinced . . . or, despite visions, the Alliance must find someone else!
A determined look crossed his features. Varian Wrynn would listen.
He went in pursuit of Stormwind’s bitter king.
Malfurion likely felt betrayed, and Varian could not blame him, but the night elf had been presumptuous to think that he could convince the lord of Stormwind to change his mind. The king of Gilneas had much blood on his hands—human blood. Where had he been when Lordaeron had beseeched others for aid during the Third War? True, Stormwind had not directly participated in the war, but it had been a strong supporter of the Alliance. Stormwind had also been going through much more turmoil at that time . . . and Varian had been at the heart of most of that turmoil. Already a king at eighteen due to his father’s assassination, he had been trying to oversee the kingdom’s reconstruction when he had been politically outmaneuvered after his wife’s death by the foul sorcery of Lady Katrana Prestor . . . who, in truth, had been the black dragon Onyxia. And when Varian had sailed at Lady Jaina’s suggestion to Theramore for a summit, he had been kidnapped and subsequently lost his memory.
No, Varian felt that he could not be blamed for Stormwind’s inability to do more for the Alliance. Genn had been his own man and fully in charge when he had refused to answer the call more than once. He had built his damnable wall to seal off Gilneas; then, during the Third War, he had not deigned to contribute so much as a token force. That last affront had been too great even for some of his own people, who had taken up the challenge themselves and formed the valiant Gilneas Brigade.
Varian felt no satisfaction for what he had said, but neither did he have any remorse. Genn Greymane had only gotten what he had much too long deserved.
World of Warcraft: Wolfheart Page 18