His mind went to the assassins. If they could murder Highborne, how easy it must have been to simply follow a fool like Jarod. His skill had evidently rusted greatly, after all.
Barely had he begun trailing Eadrik than he almost collided with the worgen, who stood stiffly, staring at something a little farther down the trail.
It was another worgen . . . minus his head. Even in death, he still retained his lupine form, something that Jarod had not expected.
The killer was someone of high skill, indeed. Jarod could see how cleanly the head had been severed. What made that more astounding was that the evidence he saw indicated that the worgen had been facing his slayer.
“I warned Samuel not to take this lightly! I warned him that they were dangerous even to us!”
“Who?”
Eadrik did not answer. With a growl, the worgen lunged ahead, on the path of whoever had killed his companion. Utterly baffled at this turn, Jarod had no other recourse but to keep up. That immediately proved difficult, for the worgen dropped down on all fours, increasing his speed dramatically.
The worgen sniffed the air as he ran, following the scent. The pair quickly left the vicinity of the encampment and, shortly after that, even the most remote part of Darnassus. The deep forest beckoned ominously, but neither slowed even though Jarod had a bad feeling about where things were heading.
Eadrik came to a halt, the worgen rising and lifting his snout to the sky. He inhaled deeply, then bared his teeth and growled low. Jarod, who could see nothing around them but the trees, wondered what the Gilnean was up to now.
“Can’t have lost them,” Eadrik muttered. “The scent was there. . . .”
Jarod smelled something. A flowery scent. It should have been nothing out of the ordinary, but to him it somehow seemed out of place.
Eadrik did not note it so. His mind was on other matters. “I shouldn’t even be here. . . . I should’ve left this to you night elves! The king wanted all of us able fighters to go with him except for a handful to stay with the young and ill! I was to go with, but I begged him to let me stay! Why did I do it? It’s your problem, not ours . . . but the archdruid’s tried to do so much for us; I couldn’t leave it. . . .”
“What are you talking about?” Jarod asked, distracted by the worgen’s mutterings.
His companion stared at him. The eyes seemed too gentle for the otherwise bestial appearance . . . gentle, but not weak. Eadrik was still a human beneath the surface. “Never mind that! These assassinations! They happened too near us for my tastes! My lord ordered all of us to leave the matter be, but I couldn’t. I investigated. I found out the truth, but I didn’t think anyone would believe me! That’s why I stayed! I couldn’t leave it—”
He got no further. Suddenly there came the cracking of a tree branch from deeper in the forest.
Something flew their direction.
“Get down!” Jarod shouted, bowling into the worgen. Eadrik let out a startled growl and fell with him.
The glaive cut through the branches just behind where the worgen had stood, then arced. With sinister grace, it darted back the way it had come.
Eadrik shoved Jarod aside. “Stay down, night elf! This hunt is mine!”
Jarod tried to call him back, but the Gilnean was confident in his abilities. The worgen jumped among the trees even as another glaive soared past him.
The former guard captain seized a heavy rock and threw. The rock struck the glaive squarely, sending it off angle. The deadly weapon flew into a tree, cutting a deep gash. The glaive then bounded off the trunk and fell to the ground a short distance away.
Scrambling forward, Jarod recovered the weapon. He was not very proficient with the glaive, preferring a sword. The night elf cursed himself not only for lacking that training, but also for leaving his favored blade behind.
Gripping the glaive as best he could, Jarod crouched low, then followed after Eadrik. He did not see the worgen immediately but knew roughly where the Gilnean would have gone.
Jarod’s body ached as he pushed through the thick brush, but he fought to ignore it. There was always time for aches later, providing that he survived.
He burst through a wall of greenery—and only barely managed to grab a branch before he would have hurtled to his death. The ground dropped nearly a hundred feet. As he pulled himself back to safety, Jarod momentarily pondered the amazing landscape that existed atop the World Tree and how much effort the druids and others must have put in to create a realm that mimicked mainland Azeroth.
Sounds of a struggle brought him back to the moment. He heard Eadrik’s growl and a grunt from someone else. There was a crash.
Glaive held ready, Jarod followed the noise. The struggle had to be very close—
A curved blade barely missed his throat. Only a last-minute glint noticed out of the corner of his eye enabled Jarod to get his own stolen weapon up in time.
However, unlike the previous blade, the one that came at him now had not been tossed. Rather, it was wielded in the expert hand of whom at first Jarod thought a Sentinel—until he saw the face.
Neva grinned as she slashed again with her umbra crescent. There was madness in her eyes, but a madness with much cunning. She pressed him against a tree and forced his blades back.
“Is this not romantic?” she mocked, steering the crescent closer to his neck. “Just you and me. . . .”
“Where is . . . Eadrik?”
“The mutt? I have left him for skinning later! Make a nice cloak. . . . ”
Anger filled him upon hearing of the brave worgen’s death. He had been afraid that the Gilnean had, despite his own warnings to his countryman, underestimated those shadowing Jarod.
The last was something that still puzzled Jarod too. Why had he been followed in the first place? Had Neva been concerned that he might know something and was about to warn Maiev?
Maiev . . .
Jarod cursed as it all made sense to him. Neva’s grin grew wider, more mocking.
“Figured it out, did you? You are not just pretty but smart too! Your sister is going to cleanse our people of all their taint! No Highborne, no mutts, no humans . . . no Alliance! We need nothing from them, and all they do is bring their foul ways to us!”
She was insane if she believed what she said, and if she did indeed serve Maiev in this “cleansing,” then Jarod’s sister was even madder. He could see how it might have come about. Her entire existence had consisted of preserving the night elf race in one way or another. The Highborne’s return must have been the breaking point. It was as if Zin-Azshari had once more claimed dominion over their people.
The crescent edged nearer to his throat. Neva was strong, and although she might not be as much as Jarod, she also had leverage on her side.
“Why . . . does she want . . . me dead?” he rasped.
“Maiev does not! She thinks you are useful as a puppet! But I have been watching! You are more dangerous than she thinks! She will appreciate why I killed you. She knows that I believe!”
Jarod saw no point in trying to talk her out of her murderous ways. Neva was a fanatic who saw him only as an impediment.
From behind Neva there erupted a dark form. Daring to look beyond his attacker, Jarod saw Eadrik, his coat matted with both his own blood and surely that of others, fall upon Maiev’s second.
But Neva was very skilled herself. She pulled her crescent from Jarod and twisted it around just in time to gut the oncoming worgen.
Unfortunately for Neva, that left her open to Jarod. Too late to save his rescuer, he managed to avenge him. The stolen glaive cut deep into the back of her neck.
Neva spun, then fell to her side. Her foot missed the ground and she started over the edge. Even then, though, her obsession remained with her and she grabbed Jarod by the arm, intending to bring him with her.
A set of claws ripped through the wrist of the hand clutching Jarod. Hacking and coughing, Eadrik shoved into Neva as she lost her grip.
Tangled, the pair
fell to the ground far below.
The thud shook Jarod to the heart. The night elf peered down. The two bodies lay separate now, Eadrik on his stomach and almost looking asleep rather than dead, and Neva—
Neva moved. Barely. There was no chance that she could recover, not this far from any priestess or druid, but the assassin was not yet dead.
Jarod suddenly prayed that she would hold on. Struggling with his own injuries, he scrambled down to the two as quickly as he could. He who had seen so much death on the battlefield had no trouble assuring himself that the worgen was dead.
Neva moaned. Jarod knelt down beside her just as she managed to open one eye.
“C-come to kiss me good-bye?” she whispered, smirking.
“No. I have come to watch you die slowly, painfully. I have seen injuries like yours. You will survive for several hours, maybe a day or two. I will be gone before then. You will die alone, unless some animal comes to gnaw on you while you are still fresh.”
The smirk vanished. Neva looked uncertain, off balance. “Kill me. Y-you know . . . you know you want . . . to.”
“I have no reason to grant you any peace. You killed my friend and his friend. . . .”
Neva laughed, which sent blood out of the side of her mouth. “The worgen . . . better than I thought. Must have killed Tas’ira after . . . after we both thought we killed him.”
Hearing that there had been another enemy nearby, Jarod quickly looked around, but saw nothing.
This made Neva’s grin widen. . . and look even more deathly. “N-never fear. Had . . . had she been around, you . . . you would not be alive! She was with me. . . . ” The Watcher suddenly shook. “Ungh! By Elune . . . kill me!”
Jarod did not move. “Tell me where my sister is and I will end your suffering.”
“You . . . you will never reach her in . . . in time!” Neva said the last with some pleasure despite her pain.
“I will if you answer me quickly. In return, I swear that I will do what I can for you.”
She glared at him. “I will not . . . tell you.”
He reached to his belt, where a knife hung. Jarod slowly removed the short but sharp blade. “I will end the suffering. It will only get worse. I know. I saw it on the fields so many times. Good, strong warriors—stronger than you or me—screaming from the pain of their wounds and their shattered insides. The worst ones were those I could not reach because of the Burning Legion so near. They lived for days.” He looked off, remembering. “I cannot think of how many I had to send off because there was not any chance of a healer of any sort even easing their conditions.”
Neva managed to look away, although she groaned with each forced movement. Her neck was not broken, but Jarod knew that was little comfort to her. The rest of her body was mangled.
He reluctantly sheathed the knife, then rose. That caught her attention.
“You cannot—”
“I am wasting my time here. I will find Maiev one way or another—”
“Wait!” The injured assassin gritted her teeth, then gasped, “Maiev is—Maiev is going to kill the Highborne. First . . . first their leaders . . . then the rest.”
The news did not entirely shock him, not from what he had already witnessed. “That I know. Farewell, Neva. . . .”
“Wait!” She coughed and more blood came up. “W-wait. Your sister . . . your sister has another surprise. I . . . I will not let you save the damned spellcasters . . . but I . . . I will give you the archdruid. . . .”
He could not hide the effect this revelation had upon him. Jarod returned to Neva’s side. “Malfurion? What has happened to him? Where is he?”
She glared. “First . . . your . . . your word. I know you, Shadowsong. Maiev says . . . says you always kept your word . . . just like a good boy. Tell me . . . tell me you will kill me and I will give you the archdruid. . . . ” Another cough. More blood. “Will not matter as much . . . if the Highborne die. He will be disgraced. . . .”
Maiev has Malfurion. . . . The awful thought kept racing through Jarod’s mind. He could not trust that his sister might not be ready to kill the archdruid at any moment. Time was of the essence. “You have my word. I will take the pain away.”
She looked relieved, and extremely pale. As best she could, she told him the path he should take. Jarod, as a soldier well-versed in communicating with the dying, could tell that she did not lie. There were some gaps in her description, but he knew enough, he thought.
“You . . . you promised,” she pressed after she was done.
“I know,” Jarod answered, drawing the blade.
Neva studied the knife, then turned her gaze skyward.
“You will . . . be too late to stop her,” Neva rasped. “Too late . . .”
He said nothing, using the knife expertly to keep his oath.
The deed done, Jarod Shadowsong stood. Even though Neva had been an enemy, he regretted that he had let her suffer for as long as he had. That was not his way. However, Jarod had needed to know what his sister intended and where it would take place. And while Neva had not given him everything, she had offered one item that, frankly, was much more important to him than the lives of all the Highborne combined . . . Malfurion’s whereabouts. Nothing mattered more than rescuing the archdruid.
Jarod leaned over Eadrik. With his finger, he drew a crescent moon in the air over the worgen’s body. The sign of Elune. He prayed that the Mother Moon would take Eadrik’s spirit to wherever the worgen’s kind should go after death. Eadrik had proven himself as good a comrade as any Jarod had fought beside in the war. The members of the Alliance were fools if they did not see what having such beings on their side could mean. It might even be able to swing the advantage away from the Horde, who thus far seemed better suited to the wild world Azeroth had become.
The night elf headed off at as great a pace as he could. However, only then did he recall that he had forgotten to make certain from Neva that there were no more traps between Malfurion and him. It would take only one misstep to end the archdruid’s rescue before it began.
And this time, there would be no one to save Jarod, either.
24
ASHENVALE AT WAR
As Jarod had begun his day in search of Malfurion, events quickened in Ashenvale. With Elune’s guidance, Tyrande had worked miracles in the form of moon-affected currents to see to it that the ships reached Ashenvale even more quickly than estimated. Shandris had immediately sent heralds to the outposts to alert them of their coming and, in turn, learn where matters stood. As this went on, the newly arrived force wasted no time in moving out and marching. During the march, Tyrande explained to those priestesses who had accompanied her as to what their roles would be and what risks they would have to take.
Thus it was that Haldrissa and her Sentinels had the great pleasure—and relief—of watching the reinforcements arrive the next day, and they instantly began melding with the defenders already at the river. With Denea and the rest of her staff at her side, Haldrissa quickly rode up to meet the arrival of the high priestess and general.
Tyrande Whisperwind was an arresting sight. She did not wear the soft, shimmering robes of the temple now but rather the armor of a warrior of the moon goddess. Her formfitting armor, which covered her from neck to foot, had been crafted with layered plates that allowed her ease of movement. A gossamer cloak the color of moonlight and attached at the shoulders fluttered in the breeze. The high priestess also wore a winged helmet that covered the top half of her head.
“Hail, Commander Haldrissa,” Tyrande said without preamble. “I give thanks to the Mother Moon that we find you holding here.”
“The Horde has made no sign of movement since Silverwing fell. . . .”
Their expressions turned more dour at her answer. Tyrande and Shandris had been informed of the outpost’s destruction the moment that they had arrived, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow. For a long time Silverwing had been admired as an example of night elf determination in the face of
extreme adversity.
“The damned orcs will pay,” Shandris remarked with relish. “Whatever tricks they have been using are not going to help them anymore!”
“Let us temper our desire to avenge the brave defenders of Silverwing and elsewhere in Ashenvale with the knowledge that Garrosh Hellscream commands the Horde now, not Thrall,” said Tyrande. “This is a different Horde in many respects, Shandris. We must move with thought and caution.”
“Oh, we will. We will move with the thought of crushing the orcs and the caution of not getting their blood in our eyes when we cut them down.”
The high priestess’s brow arched. Haldrissa said nothing, but Denea and most of the other Sentinels present nodded hearty agreement with the general.
“We need to know all that has transpired,” Tyrande told the commander, “and where you think your weakest points in the line might be.”
Haldrissa wasted no time in explaining all as best she could. A daring Denea tossed in her own suggestions when there seemed a point of hesitation on the senior officer’s part, including the belief that a thrust forward now would enable them to push the Horde back even to Silverwing. Haldrissa did not silence her second, a part of her wondering if Denea had a sharper grasp than her at the moment. Not once did the younger Sentinel pause in uncertainty as she did, and all that Denea suggested sounded reasonable to her.
Shandris and the high priestess took in everything, but voiced no opinion until the pair was done. At that point Tyrande Whisperwind looked to her general. “What say you?”
“It sounds as if the line is well set up. The thrust forward might be wise; one should never keep on the defensive with the Horde. I will have scouts set out immediately while we distribute our own forces along the perimeter Commander Haldrissa has established. The river is a good point of defense in case we have to pull back for one reason or another. We will leave a row of archers to give cover fire in case of that.”
“The goblin mist,” Haldrissa reminded her.
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