“Your quarry? You jest!” Genn sniffed at his opponent. “You think you can take him from me? Listen to me, Varian Wrynn! The curse more than heightened our senses. We see things that no normal human can. Some call you Lo’Gosh, though that they use a Taur-ahe title for you I find ironic. Still, it is but another name for Goldrinn, as we have come to know our patron spirit since our transformation. I saw the aura of that spirit around you the first moment you arrived at the banquet, and even though you gave every indication of crushing our hopes then, I still held out for our chances because I could see his touch upon you as if it were your own skin. . . .”
Although he showed no sign of it, Varian was briefly unnerved by Genn’s revelation. He had gratefully accepted the name when given to him, but had always thought it just an honor. Now Genn claimed that the wolf spirit’s essence or something touched Varian.
Ignorant of the effect of his words, the king of Gilneas went on, “But even if Goldrinn has blessed you, you’re still Varian Wrynn . . . and that’s why you stand as much a chance of taking my prey as you do lifting the Greymane Wall with your bare hands. . . .”
And with that, Genn Greymane rushed off after the boar.
Varian followed without hesitation. He saw that Genn had some advantage in speed, but if the king of Gilneas indeed thought his rival less adept at the hunt than the worgen, it was because he had not seen Varian in pursuit of prey. Instincts that no ordinary man possessed overtook the lord of Stormwind again. He smelled not only the scents of the worgen but, even through those many smells, that of the boar. Sharp hearing differentiated between the sleek, subtle sounds of the worgen moving through the forest and the more rushed charge of the huge animal they chased. Varian eyed the landscape before him, instantly understanding the lay of it. He altered his path from that of his rival and rushed toward the south, then turned again.
As he had estimated, the land rose up against Genn, slowing him a few precious seconds. Barely breathing hard, Varian scurried down the other side. He knew from so many past hunts that the boar would be in need of a pause, and he had a very good notion of roughly where.
An exhilaration filled Varian as he pursued the hunt, an exhilaration that had nothing to do with besting Genn. He felt more alive than he had in months. The pain of Anduin’s abrupt departure still remained, but the constant exertion, the need to keep his attention focused so hard on the quarry, enabled Varian to better tolerate the terrible loss.
He spotted a shape far ahead that was no worgen. The huge boar stood frozen, either hoping that its stillness would keep it hidden from the hunters, or simply finding itself unable to choose what to do next.
The boar suddenly moved.
Varian swore under his breath. The boar was racing up toward where Genn would likely appear. Somehow, Varian had spooked the creature even from so far away. It was not typical of his hunts, and to the younger king, now was the worst possible time for him to make such a mistake.
But Varian did not give in to defeat. He still had the chance to outwit his rival. More important, the bow gave him an advantage in distance, assuming that he utilized his skill to its utmost.
Varian rushed up behind the boar. Twice he almost had his shot. The second time, the boar turned in a direction that the veteran hunter had not expected. It forced the animal to scramble over unsteady ground, providing both pursuers a better chance of catching up.
Sure enough, a worgen materialized a moment later . . . but not on the path from which Varian expected Genn. It was one of the younger ones, a dark brown male with the tip of one ear missing. Evidently his own hunt had led him back this direction and now he stalked after prey that he did not know had been chosen by his master . . . and Varian.
The boar twisted as it struggled up a hill. The young worgen closed on the animal. Of Genn there was yet no sign, but Varian had to assume that he would be there at any moment.
He aimed. A good shot—a very good shot—would down the boar before the young worgen could catch it.
At that moment the boar turned on the worgen. Caught by surprise, the Gilnean did not move out of the way in time. The gargantuan boar used its tusks and snout to toss its one pursuer to the side. The worgen crashed against a tree, stunned by the collision.
The animal’s decision gave Varian the shot he desired. He aimed . . . and then held back. The boar chose then to turn and continue its flight.
“And this is how you hunt?” mocked Genn’s voice.
Varian turned to find the other king racing up to him. Behind Genn came several others, including Eadrik. The gathered worgen sniffed the air in the direction of the fleeing boar.
“Sometimes you need to let the prey run,” Varian replied.
“That makes no sense!”
The lord of Stormwind had no interest in explanations. “Shall we continue?”
Before Genn could answer, Varian ran again. He heard a growl from his rival, then the soft sound of the pack following. Varian was not concerned that the other worgen had joined in. He knew that they would leave the hunt to their lord. This was still a contest between the two rulers.
Varian picked up the boar’s trail. He admired the beast’s stamina and strength. In some fashion, he related to its struggle. Varian intended to honor his quarry and make certain that the carcass would not go to waste. That would be a true insult to an admirable adversary.
The boar rushed toward thick brush that possibly promised escape. Certainly it would be harder for either Varian or Genn to chase the animal into it without being slowed. The boar was better designed to push through.
Then from another direction came a new worgen. Belatedly, Varian recognized him as the young one with the missing ear tip.
The boar let out an unsettling snort. It fought to stop in its tracks. Caught by surprise, the young worgen landed in front of rather than atop his intended prey.
The boar charged back the way it had come, seemingly ignorant of the fact that it raced toward more of its pursuers. Another startled worgen leapt aside just as sharp tusks would have gored his leg. The light brown hunter landed on all fours and readied himself for another lunge.
Out of the thick brush behind him burst a bear.
The huge black beast stood on its hind legs and roared, revealing a maw wide enough to envelope a man’s head and sharp, yellowed teeth more than capable of ripping that head free. The bear loomed over the startled worgen, its long, thick claws more than a match for those of the Gilnean.
The wind was the reason that no one had picked up the other predator’s scent. It had been blowing toward the bear, which, perhaps because of its tremendous size, had not been deterred by the worgen’s presence. For the young, impetuous Gilnean, that meant that the hunter had now become the prey.
Instinct commanded Varian, who immediately fired. However, the bear turned as he did and the arrow struck the shoulder.
The wound more outraged the ursine beast than slowed it. It continued to focus on the nearest enemy. The young worgen moved too slowly to dodge the heavy paw. The blow sent the Gilnean tumbling, although unfortunately not far enough to keep him safe from the bear.
Another arrow already nocked, Varian fired. The second shot also struck, this time in the upper chest. However, the bear’s thick hide and strong muscle were enough to keep the creature from being badly wounded.
As the second bolt hit, another worgen suddenly leapt into the struggle. He threw himself in front of the fallen one, then howled a challenge to the bear. The looming beast roared back at the worgen. Huge teeth snapped at the brave Gilnean.
Despite the threat, Genn Greymane stood his ground.
Behind him, two others seized the stunned hunter and dragged him off. This seemed to further infuriate the wounded bear, which reached for the lone defender with both huge paws.
The worgen jumped above the paws, either of which would have landed a killing blow. Using the bear’s own foreleg as a boost, the lupine hunter dove for his adversary’s thick throat.
Claws raked at the area just below the bear’s jaw. Blood splattered the worgen.
The bear roared in pain now. Yet, that pain also fueled its incredible strength. One foreleg caught the worgen as he sought to leap back. The bear fell upon its attacker.
Varian had come to a decision, albeit one most men would call mad. Alone against the bear, he would have eventually downed the beast with a shot to the throat or the eye. However, the confrontation with the worgen had made his shots more difficult since he did not want to cause any harm to them. Therefore, the bow was of no use.
Letting the bow simply drop free, the lord of Stormwind drew his knife and, with a howl worthy of a worgen, threw himself forward. Bloodlust drowning out attention to anything else, the bear saw only Genn, just as Varian had hoped.
The human landed atop the hulking animal. Without hesitation, Varian jammed the knife into the muscular flesh.
The struggle caused his aim to be off. Instead of the neck, he caught the shoulder blade. The tip of the knife snapped off, leaving an angled edge.
Worse for him, he had now become the center of the ursine behemoth’s attention. The bear straightened, nearly dislodging Varian. The huge beast twisted, trying to free itself of the annoyance clinging to its back.
It was all Varian could do to hold on. Even the rippling of the bear’s muscles shook him like an earthquake. The king also gripped the broken knife, the end of which still had some use as a weapon—if Varian did not fall.
A snarl that was not the bear’s filled Varian’s ears. Genn Greymane again jumped up, his claws seeking the furious animal’s throat. As the bear sought to shake both of them off, the two monarchs’ eyes met and Varian realized that Greymane was trying to distract the beast enough for the lord of Stormwind to strike again.
The thick forelegs wrapped around Genn. Roaring, the bear sought to bite the worgen’s face off.
Varian saw his chance.
The broken edge forced him to use every bit of his strength to shove the knife into the bear’s neck. Many men would have failed to drive the weapon deep enough, but not only did Varian have the might, he also had the knowledge—from too many gladiatorial bouts—of just where the softest part of the neck was.
The bear’s jaws were inches away from closing on Genn’s face.
Varian drove the knife deep, nearly shoving it in to the hilt.
The bear roared louder than ever, but this time there was a strained note to it. Agony did what the beast could not accomplish before: both rulers were tossed off as if nothing.
The stricken animal turned around. Varian, sprawled on the ground, stared up at the gigantic creature. The bear could still kill him.
But instead, the animal tried to reach with its paws for the knife. Claws that could shred a man could not even properly grasp the hilt. The bear slapped at the source of its pain several times, its breathing getting more ragged by the moment.
Exhaustion and blood loss sent the bear crashing down on all fours. It rocked back and forth, still trying to twist its head around enough to bite out the knife.
A figure moved in from the other side. Varian heard the familiar sound of tearing flesh.
The bear let out a moan and fell on its left side, its throat now torn out.
A worgen stood above the dead animal, blood and bits of meat still dangling from the end of his claws. The worgen looked at Varian.
Varian nodded to Genn. The other king had done the correct thing. Neither of them bore any malice toward the bear. The creature had only been following its instincts and it had been its misfortune to come across the hunters. That it could have easily killed not only the two of them but also the unfortunate young worgen was simply part of the risk when hunting.
Genn offered a gore-soaked hand to Varian. Varian had heard long ago that the king of Gilneas had been raised not to accept the hand of anyone, to always stand on his own, and at first the lord of Stormwind thought to decline the offer. Then he remembered all his counterpart had promised and was doing to rejoin the Alliance.
Varian took the hand. Genn helped him up . . . and then the two men held their grips a moment longer, two hunters acknowledging one another’s skills.
Turning to the bear, Varian studied his counterpart’s strike.
“A quick killing blow,” he complimented Genn.
“I simply finished your work,” the Gilnean ruler returned. “The kill is yours. The hunt is yours.”
Varian shook his head. “Hardly. I was hunting a boar.”
“A man who hunts a rabbit and brings down a deer is applauded. A man who hunts a boar and brings down a bear should be acclaimed.”
And with that, Genn looked to the sky and unleashed a powerful howl, a howl that honored both the kill and the one who made it. His call was taken up by the other worgen, all saluting the skills of the king of Stormwind.
Genn finally finished, the howls of his followers ending with his. He faced his counterpart again.
Only . . . Varian was no longer there.
19
SILVERWING
Silverwing Outpost had had no news in two days from the nearest other outposts, and that worried Su’ura Swiftarrow. She had come from Silverwing Grove at the behest of the outpost’s commander, only to find that the other officer had been slain in an ambush shortly before Su’ura’s arrival. The ambush had also taken out the second-in-command. Su’ura had not intended to stay, but the only other Sentinel officer was too inexperienced.
She had dispatched two hippogryph riders, one to the next nearest outpost and the other to Commander Haldrissa. From one of the two there should have been some word. Either that, or the riders should have returned with warning of some catastrophe.
But the riders had not returned and Su’ura suspected that they would not. Silverwing Outpost was on its own in the battle against the Horde.
She strode along the edge of the outpost, eyeing the mist that was fast rising. It could not be blamed on Fallen Sky Lake to the south, not when it was coming from Horde-held lands.
A low rumble of warning rose up from behind her. She did not show any surprise, aware of what kept pace with her.
“Easy,” Su’ura said to the huge black nightsaber with her. The beast wore golden brown armor with purple gems over its head and sides. The night elf herself was also fully armored, as were all those on duty, though her shoulder areas were more decorated with fine gold bands over the silver. Those who thought the armor more ornamental than useful had discovered, if they were orcs or other foes, that it protected her quite well while she was gutting them.
The hoot of an owl seized her attention as the growl of the night-saber had not. The outpost commander looked up to the roof of the main structure, where a soot-colored owl perched. The bird peered into the forest ahead, then abruptly abandoned its position. It descended to a waiting Su’ura, who stretched out her arm so that it had a place to alight.
“What is it, Hutihu?” she asked grimly. “Where?”
In response, the owl hooted once, then swiveled its head slightly toward a particular part of the forest. Su’ura followed its gaze expectantly.
The sentries at the outpost’s edge stiffened as a figure slipped out of the brush. They only calmed when it was clear it was one of their own . . . so to speak.
The figure who returned to Silverwing belonged to a group that was not exactly favored by most Sentinels, but it had its uses, and in Su’ura’s eyes some members had more than proven their loyalty. In fact, the one approaching now was so trusted by Su’ura that she had risen up to a level of command, now serving as supply officer.
Of course, her role as a scout—for lack of a better word—along with related unofficial duties, was still the most important aspect of her use.
“Illiyana Moonblaze,” Su’ura solemnly greeted her. “You are back sooner than I expected . . . and hoped.”
The other night elf was a distinct contrast to Su’ura, not to mention most of the others there. It was not just that she wore
a dark corseted outfit that reminded Su’ura more of a human buccaneer, but that Illiyana radiated a presence in some manner akin to that of a wild pirate. As tradition went, those of Illiyana’s “calling” were not respected much more than pirates even though they had been a part of night elf life for years, but the changing times had more and more found places for such as her among the trusted fighters of the Alliance.
Illiyana sheathed a pair of longswords she utilized in place of a glaive. With a wry smile, she asked, “You did not miss me?”
“Enough jesting. What did you see?”
“More to the point, what did I not see? And what did I hear?”
The commander looked at her with some exasperation. Hutihu made a sound that echoed her annoyance.
The wry grin faded a bit. “All right. First, it is so thick out there, you cannot see more than a few feet in front. We do not go charging into it, it should be to our advantage.”
“So we stand our ground.”
“Unfortunately, it is moving toward us.”
Su’ura had already thought so, but hearing that fact verified still struck her now. “You could have said that right away. How fast?”
“Fast enough that it is good you have got everyone in position already.”
As bad as that, the commander thought. “You said you heard something?”
“Buzzing. Like a great mass of wasps. There is another thing: the more you go into the mist, the more it stinks of oil, as if someone lit a bunch of lamps and left them burning.”
Su’ura knew what that, combined with the buzzing, meant. “Goblins. There are goblins out there.”
Illiyana appeared unimpressed. “The night we cannot handle a bunch of goblins is the night Ashenvale should fall.”
“Be careful what you say,” snapped the commander, although she was not overly concerned about the goblins, either. What much more bothered her was what would be marching with them.
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