World of Warcraft: Wolfheart

by Richard A. Knaak

  Briln swung again, and in doing so reminded Varian of his one obvious weakness. The eye patch meant darkness was all that the orc could see on that side, and even though Briln knew that, too, he could still not change that fact.

  Varian let the orc attack anew, and when the swing pulled Briln so that his lost eye best faced the human, Varian drove Shalamayne into his adversary’s chest.

  Briln dropped his weapon as Varian pulled Shalamayne free. The orc fell to his knees. Still glaring at Varian, he gasped, “My . . . magnataur . . . my . . .”

  The captain crumpled, and Varian swung Shalamayne behind his own back.

  A shock ran through his body as the blade met metal. Half kneeling, he spun and blocked a second swing. Both times an inhuman wail preceded the clash.

  “I knew you’d deflect both,” Garrosh rumbled in honest admiration as he loomed over Varian. “You would not be who you are if you could not. . . .”

  “I’d be dead,” Varian answered lightly. “I’d be you.”

  The warchief chuckled . . . and attacked.

  Shalamayne and Gorehowl bit at one another once, twice, three times. Their wielders brought them together so quickly that, rather than sparks, it was as if lightning played over the human and the orc.

  Varian stumbled over a corpse. Garrosh chopped downward, intending to cleave him in two. The king rolled to the side, came up, and lunged.

  Now it was Garrosh’s turn to retreat. He kept Gorehowl up, saving his throat twice, then used the hefty reach the axe provided him to stave off Varian until the orc was able to regain his footing.

  Once more, sword and axe joined together. Garrosh sought to catch the blade with the curve of Gorehowl’s head, but Varian withdrew the point at the last moment. He then tried to drive under the warchief’s defenses, only to have the orc block Shalamayne with the flat of the axe.

  “You only delay the inevitable!” shouted Garrosh. “The day of the Alliance is at an end! The Horde is Azeroth’s future!”

  “The Horde should fear the end of day! With the end of day comes the night . . . and with the night comes the worgen . . . ,” Varian retorted.

  The gap that had separated them from the other combatants around them closed at that moment. Warriors locked in desperate combat flowed into the pair, pressing them into one another. The eyes of the human and the orc met long, and both saw death in the other’s gaze.

  “Pray to your spirits,” the king flatly stated.

  “I shall do so. You’ll need a proper guide to the afterlife, human. . . .”

  With a roar, Garrosh shoved as hard as he could. Varian slammed into those behind him. The warchief cut a savage arc, Gorehowl’s mournful cry sending those closest scattering again.

  Varian cut off the cry with Shalamayne, first deflecting the axe, then using a twist of his wrist to enable the sword to bring the orc’s weapon to the side.

  With his fist, Garrosh hammered the human’s shoulder. Varian gritted his teeth as his bones shook. Seeking to stop the attack, he brought his blade between his shoulder and the pounding fist.

  The warchief swung at his other, now-unprotected shoulder.

  Varian tossed Shalamayne to his other hand, then tilted the blade toward Gorehowl. But although he kept Gorehowl from crushing his shoulder, the axe still cut across the upper arm. The king grunted in renewed pain as he shifted away.

  Shalamayne avenged him quickly. Varian had long ago learned to wield his sword with either hand, although one would always be favored over the other. Garrosh reacted too slowly to the fact that his human foe could handle Shalamayne well even now. The tip of the sword drew a red line along the warchief’s chest just below the throat.

  Suddenly another axe entered the fray. One of the Kor’kron had reached the struggle and, in keeping with his duties, sought to protect Garrosh. The guard threw himself bodily toward Varian, his unexpected intervention leaving the king in desperate straits.

  Another Kor’kron came at Varian from the opposite direction. Their axes were not Gorehowl, but they were well bloodied and wielded by expert hands. The Kor’kron slashed and swung, pushing Varian back.

  Garrosh growled angrily at his guards, but his words were drowned by the battle. Both Kor’kron looked upon Varian with malevolent eagerness: with his death they would not only serve their warchief but also bring acclaim upon themselves.

  The lord of Stormwind read their reflexes, recognized their moves. He let one guard press ahead of the other. As the first Kor’kron’s anticipation of striking the fatal blow rose, Varian shifted his grip on Shalamayne and threw it like a spear.

  Caught unawares by the unorthodox maneuver, the foremost guard left himself open. The force of Varian’s throw sent the blade deep into his foe.

  Before the second Kor’kron could make sense of matters, Varian had snatched away the dying guard’s axe. With the full force of his might, he swung at his other adversary’s leg.

  The axe all but separated the limb. Screaming, the orc fell to one side.

  Varian plucked Shalamayne free, then skewered the wounded Kor’kron.

  Why Garrosh had not pursued his two guards became evident as the orc buried Gorehowl in the skull of a riderless nightsaber. The cat did not die immediately, its sharp claws seeking one last time to tear the orc to shreds. But with agility more remarkable due to his broad form, Garrosh evaded the feline’s paw, then moved in and for a second time let Gorehowl bite into the nightsaber’s skull.

  The warchief turned his dripping axe to Varian. Without a word the pair renewed their duel. Blood from those who had gotten in their way splattered the human and the orc, but neither paid attention to anything but the other.

  Horns sounded. Alliance horns. They grew more dominating, though Garrosh did not notice that. What he did notice was that his breathing was growing more ragged. He had expected to slay Varian Wrynn by now and raise the human’s severed head for all the hapless Alliance to see. Because of that, he had exerted himself harder than he usually did.

  But this human has come an impossible distance! the orc angrily reminded himself. He should be the weary one! He should be unable to even lift his sword. . . .

  Varian, though, looked as fresh of energy as he had when first they had met. The human’s eyes remained unwavering.

  Garrosh realized that he had far underestimated the human. This king possessed the fury of an orc and, through him, the defenders seemed to have gained that fury as well.

  And only then did the warchief truly see that the stories he had heard about Varian Wrynn were true. Lo’Gosh did smile with favor on this human . . . and why not? They were of a kind. Here was one who had the heart of a great and determined hunter, a great and determined warrior.

  The heart . . . of a wolf.

  I have been a fool! the warchief knew then. I should’ve planned an even greater, more brutal thrust! With such a leader, the Alliance may even take eastern Ashenvale back!

  Unmindful of what went on in his adversary’s thoughts, Varian further pressed his attack. He saw Garrosh give ground and knew that the orc did not do so as part of some sinister strategy. The advantage had turned to Varian’s.

  Varian slashed. It was an attack a weary Garrosh knew that he could parry, but his arm moved a fraction slower than it was wont.

  Shalamayne dug into the upper arm, striking tensed muscle.

  Garrosh’s entire arm shook. The warchief’s grip momentarily failed. Gorehowl slipped from his twitching fingers and fell to the ground.

  Varian pulled back to strike—and an ear-shattering roar overwhelmed both fighters. Varian and Garrosh looked up to see another magnataur come rushing down on them. Worgen scurried over his body as he sought to escape their savage attacks. The worgen had taken Varian’s tactics to heart and had improved on them, for as the behemoth reached the pair, his ravaged front legs gave out and he pitched forward.

  Varian threw himself back. With his good hand, Garrosh risked life and limb to seize Gorehowl. As the shadow of the plummet
ing magnataur rushed over him, he leapt.

  The stricken monster rolled to one side, but the worgen only clambered to safer ground, then resumed their relentless shredding. The hind legs kicked wildly, forcing Varian to back farther away.

  Garrosh pushed himself to his feet. He searched for the human, but the struggling magnataur blocked his view.

  Rage refueling his strength, the warchief began running to the back of the beast. He would find Varian Wrynn again and this time there would be a decisive—

  “Warchief!” Another of his Kor’kron stepped in front of him. Garrosh tried to shove the fool aside, but suddenly other hands seized him.

  “Beware!” shouted another guard. Two others stepped in to protect their leader as several worgen atop the magnataur took interest in fresher meat. “Get the warchief away!”

  As some of his personal guard battled the worgen, a furious Garrosh roared, “Release me, you damned fools! I must find him! I will have his death . . . and claim the sword!”

  “The battle is lost!” the first Kor’kron dared to say. “We must get you from here before we’re overrun!”

  Garrosh rewarded the speaker with the back of his hand. As blood dribbled down the guard’s mouth, the warchief roared, “The next coward to speak such lies loses his dishonorable head!”

  “No lies!” proclaimed another. Several heads bobbed in agreement. “All but one magnataur are down. Our lines have disappeared. On our south, we are among the enemy already. You but have to look and see. If I lie, my head is yours!”

  “Mine also!” said the first, with the rest following suit.

  Such offers were not given lightly, not with the great possibility that Garrosh would accept. The warchief frowned, then surveyed what he could of the struggle.

  It took no imagination to quickly see that they were right. The banners of the Sentinels could be seen edging closer. His own warriors’ banners were little in view, and most of those could be seen farther and farther east. The rest lay no doubt trampled under the enemy’s feet.

  “No! I will find him even if I must fight every foe on the field! I will not lose. . . . ” He tried to go in hunt of Varian again, only to have his own guards seize him and begin to drag him to safety.

  “We will win Ashenvale yet,” the lead Kor’kron assured him as the guards continued their struggle to save Garrosh.

  “The warchief himself says that one battle is not a war!” reminded another. “We will take Ashenvale! We swear it, Warchief. . . .”

  Garrosh fought with himself to accept what they said. They were repeating what he had always proclaimed to them. Yet, the reality was bitter to swallow . . . especially after the unfinished duel with Varian Wrynn.

  He shook free of his fearful guards, but, to their relief, headed to the mounts to which they had been steering him. In their wake, the battle still raged, though it was clear that the Alliance continued to gain ground.

  “Sound the horns,” Garrosh ordered. “Sound the retreat.”

  A relieved guard signaled a trumpeter, who did as commanded. As the hated sound reverberated in his mind, Garrosh mounted. He swung Gorehowl once, listened to it wail as he did, then hooked it onto a brace on his back. Just before Garrosh urged his mount on, he looked over his shoulder to where the first elements of the Horde were abandoning the lost cause.

  “It is but a battle,” the warchief finally agreed. “Only a battle. Ashenvale is our destiny. . . . ” Garrosh envisioned again the realm he would build and, in envisioning it, once more knew that it would happen.

  He led them off, already making plans. This was not over . . . not until he had won. . . .

  And not until Varian Wrynn was dead.

  Varian watched the riders fade in the distance, aware that he could have pursued but had chosen not to do so.

  Genn Greymane found him near the great corpse of the magnataur who had separated the human from the orc. The worgen leader’s fur was slick with blood and other gore, as was that of every other of his people.

  “You let them go . . . ,” the king of Gilneas muttered. “I saw you come around and watch the orcs take their warchief and all but carry him off. He fought them so much, we could’ve easily caught up and taken them. This would’ve all been over.”

  Varian continued to watch even after he could no longer see Garrosh. He shook his head as he replied, “Would it have? Not at this point. No . . . sometimes you have to let the prey run for a while. Then . . . then you’ll know when the right time does come.”

  Genn’s ears flattened as he tried to accept what Varian said. He was saved the trouble by the sudden arrival of a contingent of Sentinels led by both the high priestess and General Shandris.

  “Varian Wrynn,” Tyrande greeted, smiling. “Elune finally reveals her miracle.”

  “‘Her miracle’?” Genn cocked his head. “No, my lady, Elune might have some part in this—as surely Goldrinn has—but both would without a doubt give the greatest credit to another!” He extended a clawed hand toward Varian. “A warrior now in balance with himself, a leader now in harmony with the needs of those he commands!” The worgen leader turned to the others. “Varian Wrynn!”

  As the worgen leader shouted out the name, the other Gilneans began to pick it up. At first they murmured the name, but as their enthusiasm rose, they repeated it louder and louder. “Varian Wrynn! Varian Wrynn!”

  Having already rallied to that name as a battle cry, the Sentinels and the other Alliance fighters readily joined in again. Varian Wrynn did not enjoy such acclamation, but he understood the need for those cheering him to have this outlet. Varian only prayed that it would die down soon.

  If he hoped for help from the high priestess, he did not find it there. Still smiling, Tyrande nodded to Genn and said, “You speak right indeed.” She bowed her head to the uncomfortable Varian, raised her hand, and said loudly, “Hail to you, King Varian! Hail to you, savior of Ashenvale . . . and perhaps Azeroth as well. . . .”

  29

  TO FORGE A FUTURE

  Under the guidance of General Shandris, new and better-situated outposts were quickly arranged along the eastern edge of the territory under Sentinel protection. A much more tempered Denea was given command of one of these, and Su’ura Swiftarrow, while still battlemaster for Warsong Gulch, was promoted to replace the late, honored Haldrissa. A commission was also offered to Illiyana Moonblaze, but she preferred no higher rank, as it would mean more responsibility—and less independence.

  The Horde had shored up its defenses beyond the river, but the Alliance had reclaimed Silverwing and quickly rebuilt it. The Sentinel outpost had been made the staging ground for supplying the Alliance’s counterattack. Tyrande blessed the restored Silverwing in the name of Elune before she and Shandris returned out of necessity to Darnassus.

  They did not return alone.

  “It is a wonder we were able to call them all back,” Malfurion commented as they watched the other representatives of the Alliance gathering for a new summit. “I commend you, my love.”

  “Do not commend me. With the Horde still active in Ashenvale, it is more necessary than ever that we all come together. Garrosh will not sit long. He bides his time: that is all.”

  “It still took much to get them to come. I know that they had already agreed to send troops to Ashenvale, but we both understand that there is more involved if we hope to keep the Horde in check for more than a short time.” He hugged her. “As I said, you are to be commended.”

  She accepted his hug, only after that explaining, “But it was not I who truly convinced them . . . it was Varian.”

  “Varian?”

  Before she could say more, both noticed a figure standing quietly in the shadows to their side. When he realized that they saw him, he finally stepped forward. It was Jarod, his wounds recently healed by the Sisters of Elune. However, despite now being in excellent condition again, the expression on his face was akin to a man who had just learned that he was to die.

  “High Priest
ess, forgive me . . . if you can.”

  “I will not forgive you for calling me high priestess, Jarod Shadowsong . . . I am Tyrande to you. As for what I think you are apologizing for, do not.” Her own expression saddened. “I am more at fault here than anyone. Poor Maiev! I should have seen how the madness was slowly consuming her! I am only grateful that you and my husband were able to prevent further catastrophe!”

  “But she escaped.”

  “And no one holds that against you, Jarod,” Malfurion interjected. “Especially us.”

  He stood straighter. “Nevertheless, I swear to both of you that I will find her. She must be brought to justice and it must be by me.”

  “Just be careful that you do not begin to follow the same path of obsession your sister did,” Malfurion cautioned.

  “I understand what you say. I will be careful in that regard, but I will not shirk from my duty.”

  The high priestess acquiesced. “No one can deny you that right, and you have proven your abilities, Jarod . . . which brings me to my first point. Not all of the Watchers were surely aware of Maiev’s plot, and from among those proven innocent I intend to have a new leader appointed. However, the Watchers will play a different role than what we need from you, Jarod.”

  “Me? I do not understand.”

  “Once, you ably commanded warriors—and even demigods—in battle for us. With my husband’s agreement, I would have you lead a new security force, one designed to deal with troubles . . . such as Maiev.”

  “I am honored . . . and will gratefully accept.”

  “Shalasyr would be very proud of you, Jarod,” the high priestess added.

  He tried to reply, but could not find his voice. Shalasyr’s face filled his thoughts, and, for a moment, Jarod forgot that Tyrande and Malfurion stood before him.

  “I . . . like to think so,” he finally answered. “I can only hope so. She was so much more full of life than me. She should have been the one to live on.”

  “The choice is not ours. How we honor those who have passed on with the way we continue our lives is.”