Yet, even despite the deadly downpour, several orcs—arrows deep in legs, arms, and torso—survived to keep some order as they dragged more severely wounded comrades back from danger. Two grabbed banners from fallen comrades, waving the Horde flags in defiance as the Sentinels moved in after them.
Despite the surviving orcs’ bravado, it appeared that the destruction of Silverwing would soon be avenged. However, of even greater import was the growing hope that the liberation of all Ashenvale seemed possible . . . if Garrosh’s ambition could be crushed here and now.
Again, the enemy horn sounded . . . yet, this time in a more fearsome, defiant manner. Tyrande had to assume that Garrosh intended a stand on safer ground. The only trouble was, the moonlight followed the Horde, continuing to blind them even as the lancers drew within striking range. The warlocks and other casters could not even give proper cover, as they were also unable to face the moonlight. That, in turn, gave more advantage to the Alliance spellcasters, who worked in earnest to put an end to the Horde’s magical threat. Fearsome blasts bombarded the warlocks nearest to the front.
The Horde horn blared once more, its signal not at all seeming to call for retreat. Rather, it encouraged attack in its tone, promised victory.
But instead of turning to face their foes again, the orcs and other fighters remaining from the front lines did a strange thing. They scattered to the trees as if trying to get out of the way. How they hoped to escape the nightsabers by fleeing, she could not say. Night elves were more forest creatures than orcs, tauren, or even trolls. Their cats were just as wily and quick in such areas, and the riders knew well how to handle their lances even among the trees.
Shandris must have suspected something, for a horn sounded on the Alliance side, one that signaled for a regrouping rather than a continued hunt through forest. With so many of the enemy now turned from the direction of the battle, the high priestess finally chose to cease the prayer.
Even as the moonlight faded, she urged her mount forward. If there was danger to her people—and to her Shandris—Tyrande needed to be nearby.
The first wave of foot soldiers had made it to the other side behind the lancers. Some threw their glaives at retreating targets, but most already began regrouping. Watching them, Tyrande breathed with relief. Garrosh would find the advance line able to hold against his warriors.
A monstrous roar rumbled through the region.
A massive rock appeared in the sky, then dropped down hard on a band of lancers just about to join their compatriots. The hapless riders never even realized their doom. The rock crushed some, and the fragments from its shattering slew the others.
More rocks came flying through the air. Ashenvale’s defenders had warned about hidden catapults, but Tyrande had never witnessed anything like this. There was something different. She was reminded of her own near death and how that assault, too, had seemed not quite what it appeared.
The first rock had done the most harm. Now warned, the Alliance army better avoided the areas where the missiles dropped.
Trees began shaking farther into the forest ahead. Another roar thundered across the landscape . . . and this time was answered by several more, all from the same direction.
What seemed initially a series of rhythmic explosions accented the roars. Tyrande frowned. Not explosions. It was as if they were hoofbeats—but for such, the animals would have to be gigantic. . . .
The tree line flew away, entire oaks tossed as if nothing. A humongous shape, with some resemblance in outline to a centaur but much bulkier, burst out among the stunned defenders.
“Elune, preserve us!” the high priestess blurted.
The giant creature seized a lancer and mount with one hand and tossed both casually over his shoulder. Night elf and cat went screaming to their deaths. The behemoth stomped at the closest Sentinels on foot, crushing one beneath his sturdy, elephantine feet.
Indeed, the lower half of the body had much similarity to such a creature—or rather, to its larger, more deadly cousin from Northrend, the mammoth. Yet, where the head and shoulders should have begun, the upper torso of another fantastic creature roughly akin to a human began. The towering monster, two long tusks arching down from the sides of his mouth, eagerly searched the ground before him for more victims.
And as the one behemoth stomped among the scattering defenders, another broke through the forest elsewhere, sending trees down on the fighters and seizing other victims in his thick, four-fingered hands. As the second monster crushed the life out of his prey, the rest of the trees exploded and identical fiends fell upon the would-be victors. The battle had turned into a catastrophe of proportions as terrible as the legendary creatures loose among the tiny night elves.
They have set magnataur upon us! the high priestess marveled grimly. They have dared set magnataur loose in Ashenvale!
The danger to the Horde itself surely should have been obvious to Garrosh, but he had taken the risk and thus far had chosen well. To bring the savage giants of the wastes of Northrend to Ashenvale had surely been a mighty test in itself. Tyrande could not imagine how even the Horde could have managed to bring them without some sacrifice already on its part.
With heavy thumps, the magnataur wreaked havoc merely by moving. Tyrande counted eight in all—every one of them bulls—and though a small number, it was astonishing to see them together. So violent were magnataur that males such as these lived isolated from one another, or else they constantly came to blows.
The beasts crushed and tossed about their victims as if the mighty Alliance army was little more than ants. A nightsaber lacking its rider attempted to bite at the heavy, cylindrical leg of one of the magnataur. For its bravery, the cat was taken up in one hand, then torn apart with both. The magnataur then threw the mangled pieces into the river, which already ran red with blood.
Somewhere out there, Tyrande knew Shandris was trying her best to save her troops. The high priestess yearned to continue her own charge, but knew that she had to try to stop the magnataur first.
Reining her cat to a halt, she called upon Elune’s aid in that regard. As it always did, the light of the Mother Moon shone down upon her. Tyrande prayed for guidance—
Yet another huge boulder soared above her. Too late, Tyrande realized that the magnataur were the “catapults,” and for them Garrosh evidently had one particular target in mind. The glow of Elune had actually pointed her out to them. The magnataur, for all their savagery, were intelligent enough to understand what was needed. Garrosh wanted the glowing target destroyed. If it was another priestess, that would be one fewer to aid Tyrande.
And if they slew the high priestess . . . they knew that they would deal the night elves and the Alliance a devastating blow.
The shadow of the boulder passed in front of her. The high priestess pulled hard, turning her mount away from the oncoming crash and the deadly spray that would follow.
As she did, though, a sharp pain caught her near the shoulder blade. Another did near the lower part of her back.
Two arrows had struck the high priestess.
Tyrande knew that she had been tricked. Whether by the magnataur or one or two daring archers, Garrosh wanted the night elf ruler dead. In this case, the boulder had been the decoy the archers had needed.
And as the monsters from Northrend tore through her people, Tyrande dropped limply to the ground.
25
VALOR
Var’dyn looked impatiently at Archmage Mordent as they neared the grove where they were supposed to finally have answers to the horrendous crimes against the Highborne. Mordent moved with the confidence of one who had made the right decision, a decision of which the younger, ambitious spellcaster did not approve in the least.
“What does it matter if we are handed the culprits’ heads? Darnassus is complicit in this: you know that! This went on much too long and with too many excuses! The archdruid is—”
“Someone who has given us the chance to survive,” Mordent replied calm
ly as he walked.
“Pfah! We do not need him to survive! The Highborne—”
The senior mage turned abruptly, causing not only Var’dyn, but the rest of the party to stumble to a halt. Mordent studied the other magi—all younger than him—before finally settling his gaze upon Var’dyn once more.
“Azeroth has changed . . . changed in a manner unseen since Zin-Azshari fell. Nothing is as it was before. What we have done to maintain our ways for all these millennia no longer applies! How many are there of us now? How are our ranks replenishing? How many children born to our people over the last generation?”
Although no one answered—not even Var’dyn—it was not because they did not know the answers. Rather, it was just the opposite: they knew too well the truth.
“When we were immortal,” the senior archmage went on, “such things did not matter much. Death was a minor occurrence generally due to carelessness. Now, as with our brethren in Darnassus, we face mortality. But unlike our brethren, the Highborne will not be mourned if we cease to exist, unless we prove we can change. We must abide by the rules of the high priestess and the archdruid until we are accepted back into night elf society. . . .”
“We fought beside them—” Var’dyn started.
“A moment of necessity more than remorse. As soon as we could, we reverted to our ways, played with our magic—and did nothing else! We learned nothing from Zin-Azshari’s fall!”
“These murders cannot be forgiven!”
Mordent thumped the bottom of his staff on the ground. Sparks flew and the dirt and grass beneath burnt black. “And they will not! If the assassins are captured, they will be turned over to us! Darnassus justice demands that as much as our own! Now, will that satisfy you for the moment?”
Var’dyn sullenly nodded.
“I will not betray Malfurion and his mate, Var’dyn. They honor their word; I honor mine. That is the key to our future. We respect each other.”
Archmage Mordent turned back to the path ahead and resumed walking. The other Highborne followed, Var’dyn a step after. However, he quickly repositioned himself next to their leader, and no one argued. Var’dyn had the power and skill to maintain his position unless Mordent decreed otherwise and, despite their current differences, the senior archmage still favored the younger spellcaster.
A figure suddenly stepped out onto the path. They recognized one of those who served Maiev Shadowsong. “I have come to lead you.” She glanced around at the party. “Best to keep close together. You will need to on the path ahead.”
Var’dyn sneered, but Mordent politely responded, “Lead on. We are anxious to have this concluded.”
“So are we. This has gone on long enough.”
Some of the Highborne nodded satisfaction at this comment. Darnassus after all understood that these heinous crimes had to be punished.
They followed the slim female along the winding route, which wound even more than Mordent or Var’dyn recalled from the directions given to them earlier. Still, all that mattered was that soon they would be at their destination.
“Where is Maiev?” Mordent asked. “Has she the villains ready for us?”
“Justice will be meted out when you arrive there. She promises that.”
Even Var’dyn radiated some satisfaction upon hearing that. The Highborne grew more eager to reach their destination, which their guide assured them was very close now.
They entered a clearing. The Watcher strode on.
“Is this not it?” queried Var’dyn impatiently.
Their guide continued walking, not even bothering to look back.
“Insolent whelp.” Var’dyn raised a hand toward her.
Mordent used his staff to bring the hand down before the other mage could cast. “Wait. There is something wrong. . . .”
Jagged lines of crimson energy thrust up from the ground. They ensnared the Highborne before any among them could cast a spell. The energy then ran through each of the magi, who doubled over from sharp pain.
“As arrogant as ever,” someone commented with contempt. “More than ten thousand years and you still think the world bends to your slightest desire. . . .”
Mordent, Var’dyn, and some of the others managed to look up at their captor. Maiev Shadowsong smirked as she stepped in front of her prisoners. “The archdruid was more of a challenge than all of you put together!”
“What is the meaning of this?” Archmage Mordent demanded through gritted teeth. “Release us!”
She chuckled. “You are a dense lot. I am just finishing what I started, only this time to end the game once and for all!”
“You!” Var’dyn snarled. “You are the assassin! I was right! Darnassus betrays us!”
“Darnassus betrayed me, you mean.” Maiev glared. “I served loyally for thousands of years! I protected the sanctity of our life! Then, in one fell swoop, the ‘great’ archdruid returns to the high priestess, marries her, and is proclaimed co-ruler! He declares us undeserving of regaining our immortality and then, worst of all, he brought your evil back among us!”
“Where is the archdruid?” Mordent demanded. “What have you done—?”
“Never mind him!” Var’dyn interrupted. “The assassin stands in front of us!” Grinning darkly, he started to glow with power.
“You have two ways to die,” their captor calmly said. “One is to accept the punishments for your crimes. For that, you will die relatively painlessly.”
“A little pain means nothing to a Highborne,” Var’dyn mocked, the glow about him growing stronger. “Let us see how much pain you can stand. . . .”
Despite the magical bonds that surrounded them, Var’dyn clenched his fist and cast. His body flared bright from so much gathered energy.
He screamed—or rather, tried to scream. His mouth gaped, but no sound escaped.
Var’dyn’s spell faded. Instead, a black aura enveloped him. Those Highborne nearest to him did their best to pull away for fear that somehow they would be caught up in whatever was happening.
Var’dyn continued his voiceless scream. His skin seared and began to peel away in burnt fragments. His eyes turned black. He shriveled. The burning Highborne struggled to move, but the bonds of energy held him in place as the spell of the black aura slowly consumed him.
His elegant garments became cinders. His flesh crumbled away, followed by the muscle and sinew beneath. Only when those were almost gone did the life extinguish from him. Moments later, even his bones had been reduced to ash that itself vanished.
The black aura faded.
“That is the second choice of death you have,” Maiev blandly remarked.
The imprisoned spellcasters looked aghast. Recovering, Mordent said, “There is no need for this. Some agreement should surely be possible—”
She turned from them, but not before giving Mordent a crooked, mocking smile. “Oh, we have. We have agreed on your choice of death. Next, we are sure to agree on the crimes you are guilty of that make you deserve it.”
Mordent looked at her openmouthed, aware that he talked to someone who was utterly mad . . . and who held their lives in her hands.
The moment the sounds of war rang out, Haldrissa had abandoned her rest. Long used to sleeping in her armor—a survival trait of any sensible Sentinel—the commander had only had to put on her helmet. Seizing up her glaive, she had rushed to her nightsaber and ridden in search of her troops.
She had spotted them too late. Denea already had them crossing the river with the other groups. Haldrissa had felt an emptiness at watching her warriors go into battle without her.
But then she had witnessed the charge of the magnataur.
Like so many others, the veteran commander stared at the horrors looming over their comrades. She watched helplessly as one gigantic creature seized part of a cracked tree trunk and used it to bat away scattering Sentinels. Another took sadistic pleasure in snatching one fighter after another and throwing them toward the defenders still on the other side of the rive
r.
Amidst all the carnage that the magnataur created, Haldrissa spotted a more subtle threat. The Horde moved in again behind the behemoths, and among the first were archers. With the Sentinels in disarray, the archers quickly moved across open areas in the river and onto a part of the bank where one of the magnataur’s thrown boulders had sent the defenders elsewhere for the moment.
The archers did not move as if simply going into battle, and for most purposes they would have been better suited remaining on the opposing shore. These had some other, more nefarious purpose in mind, although she could not say what.
Then some of the magnataur began tossing boulders again, this time specifically behind the center of the Alliance lines. Haldrissa had to make her cat veer away from that area in order to avoid being struck by sharp flying fragments. As the nightsaber turned, the high priestess briefly came into her view—as did the fact that Tyrande Whisperwind was directly in the path of the hurtling missiles.
There was nothing Haldrissa could do for the high priestess, who she realized was the particular target of the Horde. She gave thanks to Elune when Tyrande evaded the deadly rain, then realized too late why the archers risked themselves so.
By that time two arrows had downed the ruler of the night elves.
Priestesses and Sentinels rushed to the still figure. In Haldrissa’s mind, they wasted their energy. She was also furious with herself for not preventing what had happened, even if in truth there was little she could have done.
The Horde became the focus of her collapsing world. They had destroyed Silverwing, slain scores of brave night elves, and now assassinated the high priestess. Haldrissa thought that Azeroth was surely falling into doom, but she swore there and then that the Horde would pay dearly.
The commander turned her mount back to the mayhem. She searched everywhere for some way to avenge her people on the orcs.
And there he stood.
Haldrissa first recognized Garrosh by his stance. He was absolute master of the battlefield. He waved his foul weapon over his head, and even from where she was, Haldrissa imagined she could hear the axe’s wail. Beside him were several orcs who were likely guards, one of whom also carried with him a curled horn.
World of Warcraft: Wolfheart Page 31