In answer, Malfurion set it against a tree. “No, I prefer to hunt as the animals hunt . . . and as one.”
Now at last the human understood what the night elf intended. “You’re going to become a cat!”
“Is that fair enough a hunt?”
Varian chuckled, surprising himself. “It still won’t be enough, if you mean will you be more successful than me. Do we hunt together?”
“I thought we would meet back here. I will hunt this direction,” and he pointed slightly to the north. “And you can go that direction. I promise you will have plenty to pursue there.”
“Suits me.”
“Then the best of luck! May you find what you seek!” With that, the archdruid transformed. He slumped forward, falling upon all fours. His hands became padded paws with sharp claws and his garments melted into the ether, to be replaced by sleek, dark fur. His face widened and his nose and mouth became a blunt muzzle.
A powerful nightsaber stood next to the king.
“You’ll still need a lot of luck to do better,” Varian challenged, now completely caught up in the affair.
The cat rumbled in what could only be called an amused tone, then lunged off among the trees.
“Ha!” Varian did not let his opponent get very much of a leap ahead. The king darted into his area of the forest, his senses coming alive as he moved. Already he had the bow strung and an arrow nocked. The only other weapon was the knife he wore at his waist. That would only be needed if something happened to his bow or the prey survived his shot and he had to end its pain quickly.
His ears picked up movement. Varian smelled deer. It was impossible for him to describe to others how he became during a hunt save that the king transformed into something more . . . free.
Free.
The deer was close. Varian tightened his grip on the string. He rarely needed more than one shot to down his prey. He felt obligated to do his best to honor the kill, just as the night elf had indicated he did.
Much of Varian’s anger at Malfurion faded. The archdruid had found the one method by which to give the king some relief. He would thank Malfurion later—
The deer suddenly bolted into view. It ran toward him, not the direction Varian had anticipated. The animal, a young stag, charged into him, forcing the king to leap out of the way.
And as he did, he came face to face with another hunter.
A worgen.
The furred hunter looked more startled than Varian. The two faced off against one another as the stag fled to freedom.
“You . . . ,” rasped the worgen. “You’re—”
“Varian Wrynn!” snarled a hated voice.
A second worgen burst into the area. His fur was frost white save for the head and mane, which retained some charcoal black. The newcomer’s glittering blue eyes were filled with such bitterness that Varian instinctively held his bow ready. Behind the second worgen followed nearly a dozen others, all moving with a clear subservience to this later arrival.
“You’ve got a lot of gall coming here!” As the second worgen spoke, he changed. He shrank slightly and his fur seemed to just dissipate.
Genn Greymane gestured at the bow. “Fire away! You’ve already more or less struck me through the heart! My people will suffer for your choice—”
Varian lowered the bow. “I’ll not waste an arrow on you. Bad enough you’ve ruined my hunt! Did you hope to convince me to change my mind by coming here?”
“You talk madness! We always hunt here! You’re not far from our encampment and you know it!”
“I don’t—” The former gladiator realized that he had been outmaneuvered and he knew by whom. He looked around, no longer as furious with the Gilneans as he was with another. “Where are you, archdruid? You think this funny?”
“‘Archdruid’?” Genn looked baffled.
“I do not find anything humorous about the last few days’ events,” Malfurion Stormrage replied from behind Varian. “As for Genn and the other worgen hunting here, the knowledge had completely slipped my mind.”
The archdruid was the image of innocence. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Varian found he could not bring himself to accuse the night elf outright. Glancing at Genn, he saw that the other king felt likewise.
“This area is too crowded for hunting, Archdruid,” the lord of Stormwind finally remarked. “And I’ve lost my taste for it, anyway.”
“Good,” interjected Genn with a hint of disdain. “You’d probably end up blundering into us over and over as you go stomping through the forest, scaring off all the game. . . .”
“There’ll never be a day when I can’t outhunt you or any of your dogs, Greymane,” Varian retorted, advancing on Genn.
“Ha!” The other king also advanced. “One of our younglings could catch a buck faster than you! As for me, I could take down a dozen before you managed to nick even one with those puny little bolts!”
“Always big with the boasts, but never able to follow through with them—”
“If I might intercede.” Malfurion came between the two monarchs. “There is little point in such words unless you have the wherewithal to prove your own case.”
“That’s always been the trouble with Greymane—”
“Spoken like the self-righteous—”
A thunderclap echoed through the vicinity. Ears flattening, the other worgen were cowed.
Seemingly oblivious to his own display of power, the archdruid went on, “As I said, there is little point in braying at one another without being able to justify those words. Perhaps it is time to show what, if any, strength lies behind them.”
“What’re you talking about?” Varian snapped. Genn nodded toward his rival, indicating the question was foremost on his mind as well.
“You could both go your separate ways and continue this endless argument . . . or you could put some conclusion to your disagreements by seeing who does have the better skill.”
“You think to throw us together,” Genn snarled, “and make us see each other in a different light! Ha! I know this one well enough—too well, after his damning words. . . .”
“Damning in their truth,” Varian retorted. “But I’ll agree with Genn on your intentions, Archdruid . . . and also agree that it won’t work.”
“Then, the two of you have nothing to fear.”
“It has nothing to do with fear,” the Gilnean king grumbled. “Damnation! Even if I deigned to hunt with this one around, he’d be stumbling over everything. . . .” Without warning, Genn transformed again. “Now forgive me, Malfurion, but we’ve lost enough time. We don’t hunt for sport. We hunt.”
Genn darted into the brush. The other worgen turned and followed without a sound.
“Fool Gilneans,” Varian muttered, more to himself than to the archdruid.
“My apologies for any offense I have caused,” Malfurion respectfully said.
Varian paid him no mind. “Give him furs, claws, even wings, Greymane’s no hunter. Still all bluster, even after all the ruin he’s caused himself and his kingdom. . . .”
The archdruid gestured in a direction leading away from the worgen. “If you still want to hunt, you will find good game that way, Varian.”
The king continued to glare at where his rival had last been visible.
“Varian?”
Without a word, the king darted after the worgen.
18
THE CHASE
The high priestess exhaled sharply as the last of the Alliance representatives departed. She had spent every moment discussing Ashenvale’s needs with the others and had at last managed to gain as much as she had hoped from them. In return, Tyrande had promised what she could of increasing Darnassus’s support for various requirements of the allies’ homelands. She had also worked to manipulate various deals between the different factions, achieving more in a few desperate hours than in months of negotiation.
But will it be enough to save Ashenvale? she wondered as she paused to drink some water.
The fact that Shandris had not simply walked in meant that she understood how hard the high priestess had been working on matters. The general was obviously concerned that her adopted mother might not be up to dealing with one more situation.
She had underestimated Tyrande. “Send her in, of course.”
Shandris bowed her head as she entered. “Forgive me if this is a bad time—”
“This is an appropriate time. You come with a status report?”
“Yes. I think that we can get a fleet off by tomorrow midday. Our swift-response force makes that possible.”
“A force you put together for just such an occasion,” Tyrande said with pride. Months prior to the Cataclysm, Shandris had proposed the prepared and prearranged force in view of elements of the Horde already battling with the night elves in Warsong Gulch. Six ships capable of carrying a full contingent of Sentinels, mounts, and supplies were put on constant call, with everything cycled on a monthly basis to keep all fresh and ready.
And now they were needed.
“I but followed your lead,” Shandris pointed out. “You mentioned previously that, after past events, we needed to be ready rather than reactive.”
“What about additional strength?” the high priestess asked, not wishing to take any credit for what she fully believed was Shandris’s accomplishment.
“Four more ships can sail within a week.”
“That is good news. I hope I have some for you. I have been able to secure assistance from the rest of the Alliance in one form or another. Most will offer military might; others supplies.”
Shandris smiled savagely. “The Horde will rue their ambition.”
“Perhaps . . .”
“Something you know? A vision from Elune?”
The high priestess shook her head. “No. No more visions. Merely a . . . feeling . . . on my part.”
“And not a good one. What is it?”
“The Horde knows full well that we can muster strong reinforcements. They must be following a strategy unlike any previous.”
Shandris was not impressed. “Whatever they have in mind, I will be ready for it.”
Tyrande put a motherly hand on Shandris’s shoulder. “You know my faith in you is absolute. But I have come to a decision. I will be joining you. I will be leading this expedition.”
The other night elf did not show any disappointment, only understanding. “You also had to make promises to some of our allies, promises that require you to go to Ashenvale to see them through.”
“Your ‘eyes’ are as good as ever. I only agreed to most of that a little bit ago.”
“It makes sense, especially if we need to keep them from arguing among themselves.” Shandris held up a parchment that she had brought with her. “As I thought anyway that it would be the case, I have got all you need jotted down here. Might be good if we go over it.”
The high priestess smiled proudly. “Thank you, Shandris.”
“Thank me if we survive this.” The younger night elf moved to the table and spread the parchment open. It proved much larger than it had first appeared, and there was hardly an empty space upon it. Shandris had made the most use of the parchment, and with necessity. The reinforcing of Ashenvale required great consideration . . . and all of it quickly.
And as Tyrande bent over the parchment and started to listen to her adopted daughter, she prayed to the Mother Moon that there would be time enough.
Varian caught wind of the worgen long before he saw the first. He knew that they could not smell his scent yet, for the wind blew toward him. The king also knew that they did not hear him, either, despite their acute senses. The curse might have given the Gilneans heightened senses, but they had not had the years to hone them as he had. They were still basically who they had been, while he had a lifetime of experience.
Those who accompanied Genn included other surviving members of the nobility, male and female. However, in addition, favored officers and Genn’s own personal staff and guards would also be included in the “royal” hunt. Aside from Genn, the guards would be the ones that Varian would have to watch out for most. Although the Gilnean monarch was their first priority, in what was considered a safe land the soldiers would also probably have some leeway in pursuing the prey. That meant that Varian would actually be competing against several rivals . . . which suited him just fine.
Varian had only one real reason for following. Malfurion’s plot had had the opposite effect. Varian had decided to take the archdruid’s suggestion and use it to embarrass Genn in front of his own people. The Gilneans would see that their vaunted leader was still a failure who would only bring them to further ruin.
The idea that, by shaming Genn, Varian wanted to assuage his own sense of failure had crept into the lord of Stormwind’s mind, but he had quickly and soundly buried that thought deep. All that mattered was putting the king of Gilneas in his place.
A sleek form darted among the trees to his left. One of the younger worgen. Varian used the momentary observation to judge the creatures. The worgen moved more fluidly than he had first estimated, but the king saw flaws of which he could take advantage.
The worgen glanced back at him. Initial surprise gave way to a reaction Varian found odd. The long ears of the other hunter straightened and Varian had the sense that not only was the worgen studying him, he was also seeing something that was not readily apparent to the king. The worgen briefly ducked his head low as he ran, a sign that Varian had recognized among Genn’s followers as one of respect for a pack member of higher status.
The young worgen vanished among the trees, but not because he outpaced the lord of Stormwind. Varian ran as quickly and with as much litheness as his momentary companion. He bared his teeth as he imagined the nearby pack pursuing its prey, and increased his pace in order to better his chances of joining the chase before it was too late. He knew that the pack would not hunt too far apart from one another. Their lupine tendencies would make the worgen follow certain traits that Varian understood very well.
Genn Greymane would rue his audacity, the younger monarch decided with much satisfaction. Better if he had stayed in hiding, something he’s good at.
The brush ahead shook. Varian immediately froze.
A doe rushed past him. She was small, barely adult. Varian could smell her surprise and fear. He almost fired, then held off. He had no time for his own hunt, no matter how much the urge to give chase swelled within him. What Varian wanted was to follow Genn’s prey and show that he could take it even when his rival knew that he was there.
Varian slipped behind a tree just as another worgen burst through in pursuit of the doe. The king recognized the worgen’s markings: Eadrik. Genn’s servant moved with more assurance than the other male Varian had seen, not a surprise. Genn would have the best around him, as any monarch would.
Eadrik paused. The worgen sniffed the air. Varian watched as the other hunter turned his direction.
A slight movement in the opposite direction caught Eadrik’s attention. The doe, acting only on her instincts and unable to meld those with common sense, had chosen an inopportune time to begin running again.
The worgen lunged after her. Varian waited for a moment, then stepped from the tree. If Eadrik was here, the lord of Stormwind considered, then his master could not be far.
The bow once again ready, Varian moved in the direction from which Eadrik had come. The worgen hunted as a pack to a point. Being also men, those like Genn would seek their individual kills.
Varian retraced Eadrik’s path, moving through the brush as readily as the worgen. His eyes constantly surveyed the vicinity and his ears and nose sought signs of his prey.
And at last he saw a worgen who could only be the Gilnean king. Genn flung himself after a massive boar with tusks so sharp and strong that, if the animal turned to face the worgen, Genn would truly risk death. At the moment, though, the boar thought on
ly of flight.
Genn, however, was fast gaining. He ran sometimes on only his legs, but other times used his hands too. With a litheness that Varian had not even seen from the much younger Eadrik, the veteran ruler closed on the boar.
Having measured the situation, Varian entered the fray. Although without the “benefit” of the curse, he moved with all the skill and pace of one who had survived more critical struggles than surely all the worgen combined. Yet, it was more than merely the reflexes of a former gladiator that served Varian now. Another force guided him, drove him in among the worgen as if he were one of their own and not simply a man. Others in the past had called him Lo’Gosh . . . and, at that moment, that name was more true of him than the one with which he had been born.
Growls greeted him as he moved out into the open. Two raven-black worgen—one a female with a narrower snout—leapt toward him from the trees beyond Genn. Their appearance did not surprise Varian. He had already marked them as guards.
Ahead, Genn’s ears pricked up as he heard the warning growls. He glanced to his side and saw Varian with the bow.
Varian purposely ignored his rival, instead following the boar’s trail. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Genn’s sudden understanding of just what the lord of Stormwind intended.
With a challenging growl, Genn pulled up. Only then did Varian also stop.
“So . . . ,” snarled the worgen. “You’ve come to prove yourself my better after all?”
“I’ll always be your better, Genn.”
“Rubbish! You can only imagine the powers that the curse has given us, powers beyond mere humans, powers—”
“Powers to outbrag anything,” interjected Varian. “At least, that’s all I’ve seen thus far!”
The other two worgen neared. Genn angrily waved them off. “Don’t know why I ever sought your approval for our people! If the rest of the Alliance chooses to follow you down your doomed path, then so be it!”
Varian ignored the insults. “My quarry’s running hard. You can stay and blather all day if you like, but I’m moving on. I’ve a meal to catch.”
World of Warcraft: Wolfheart Page 22