Wolfheart

14 The Worgen

More resembling a ghostly fleet worthy of the undead Forsaken, the eight remaining Horde ships at last reached Bilgewater Harbor, located off of Azshara, which lay east of greater Ashenvale. Captain Briln wasted no time disembarking once the goblins who ran the port had set everything in place. He had delivered what he could of his cargo and now was happy to be rid of it . . . even if that also meant that he would have to face the warchief over his failure.

Since his last visit here, the port had been built up considerably, and now covered the entire small island. The main keep rose high above the other structures and a thriving population—mostly goblins—scurried about as they dealt with not only the docking ships but also countless other Horde-related activities. At one of the other docks, a crane ending in a large hook lowered supplies into a warship.

A goblin operating a foul-smelling mechanism used for unloading cargo trundled by in the distance. As deadly as the shredders could be when turned on a foe, they paled in comparison to the natural fury of Briln’s cargo.

The first of the huge hold doors opened, and the crews began unloading the covered cages. None of those who had been part of the journey looked like the orcs that they had once been. Everyone was drawn, anxious.

From the docks there came some sniggering from a pair of goblins watching the activities. Growling, Briln turned on the short, wiry figures, towering over them.

“The warchief’s pets’re hungry after this journey! They could use a snack—or two. . . . ” As the goblins fell silent, he added, “Now, you can either help your lot take over control of the cages, or you can be part o’ what I feed them. . . .”

With great swallows and suddenly polite demeanors, the two goblins saluted the captain and hurried to obey.

Briln allowed himself a short chuckle before the seriousness of his own situation again arose to the forefront. He was more likely than the goblins to become food for the cargo.

He suddenly noticed a flurry of movement from the mainland. A fair-size party was approaching by boat, one that included at least half a dozen capable guards who could only be part of the warchief’s famed Kor’kron.

“Garrosh,” he whispered. Not for a moment did Briln think of seeking to avoid the encounter. His honor meant more than his life, and he would not be branded a coward in the last moments of it.

The crews and the dockworkers already had all but two of the cages settled in an open area reserved just for their arrival. Briln was proud of those who had served under him during the epic journey. He would commend them all before his execution.

Dust and bits of leaves decorated Garrosh and his retinue, a sign that they themselves had also but recently arrived in Azshara. The warchief had an expectant look on his face, but whether that boded good or ill for the captain, Briln could not say, and thus he did not raise his hopes.

Orcs and goblins slapped their right fists to the left sides of their chests as the Horde leader passed. Garrosh did not demand such signs of fealty, but was the type of commander who simply received them due to the immense respect and fear his followers had in him.

Briln did as the others and in addition kept his head low. Garrosh, should he desire it, could have that head immediately.

“Briln,” rumbled the warchief. “A long journey you’ve had.”

“A short one, when in service to the Horde and you,” the captain returned, daring to peer up under his thick brow. “And surely less dangerous than the trek from which my warchief’s obviously just come!”

“We do what we do for the greater cause.” Garrosh stared past him at the cages. “Eight. There were supposed to be more.”

“There were . . . troubles.”

“Storms?”

“Yes, and the unrest of the cargo. Much of the concoction meant to keep the beasts docile was lost, and so we could do only what we could do.” Even as he spoke, Briln felt his shame growing. His replies sounded so weak, he thought it a wonder Garrosh did not cut out his tongue to make him stop.

“Eight,” the warchief repeated. “Show them to me.”

Briln was now certain of his fate. Garrosh would not take his head; he would let one of the beasts rip the captain to shreds. Briln could not blame the warchief. It was a reasonable punishment for one who had so badly failed.

He led Garrosh and the others to the first of the cages. Inside, the beast, smelling the nearness of so many orcs, stirred. The sides of the cage shook.

“Pull back the tarp!” the captain ordered.

Four of the crew used the attached ropes to pull back the tarp over the cage door. As they did, the shaking increased and a growl rose. From the other cages there came answering sounds. Briln felt a moment of déjà vu and half expected one or more of the creatures to break free. Guards with spears quickly moved in just in case they had to defend the warchief.

The captain took no comfort in the awed expressions of several of those with Garrosh. They had every reason to be amazed and not a little wary of the prizes that their leader had ordered shipped from Northrend. However, none of them had been assigned the task. They were safe. Briln was not.

Garrosh stepped closer . . . too close for the captain’s taste. The beast, apparently of the same opinion, leapt forward and tried to fit an arm through the bars. Unlike the one monster, this creature failed. He sought then to bend the bars in order to make a better attempt, but although they creaked ominously, they did not give . . . for now.

The warchief appeared unimpressed by the ferocity of the caged horror. Looking to the Kor’kron, he said, “They’ll have to be reminded of their purpose . . . and what will happen if they don’t follow through.”

It was the first time in ages that Briln was reminded that, despite everything, the beasts were nearly as intelligent as their captors. Much more primitive, certainly, but nearly as intelligent.

One of Garrosh’s guards gestured to another Kor’kron standing by the entrance to a metal longhouse just north of the area. Something had been planned for just this occasion, and the captain had an idea what it was.

The grim guard disappeared into the longhouse. All the while, the beast before Garrosh raged, now joined with savage gusto by the other seven. Everywhere, orcs and goblins tensed, awaiting disaster. Only the warchief and the Kor’kron remained absolutely calm, even expectant.

Several startled grunts suddenly arose from the longhouse. They were like nothing Briln had ever heard.

No . . . they did resemble something. Although higher in pitch and sounding more curious than frightened, they were very much akin to the deeper voices of the cargo.

And the creatures in the cargo knew it also. Almost as one, the eight cages grew silent.

Garrosh nodded to the one before him. The warchief did not look happy with what had just taken place, but seemed resigned to it. “You understand. They are well, as I have promised. You will all thus keep your promise.”

There was a grunt from the cage. Garrosh signaled for the tarp to be let down again. Only when it had completely covered up the cargo did Briln breathe easier.

The guard who had entered the longhouse exited again, this time to report to the warchief. He looked a bit anxious as he neared. Garrosh indicated that the party—including the captain—should step farther away from the cages.

“I did as you commanded,” the Kor’kron muttered, speaking so that only those with Garrosh could hear. “I gave some of the younglings a share of that sweetened meat their kind likes so much. They raised a real ruckus. Was it enough?”

Garrosh nodded approval. “The adult beasts heard them. They should stay docile now. They just had to be reminded about our deal.”

At that moment Briln found he did not envy Garrosh; the complexities of command in such times surely tore at Garrosh’s sense of honor constantly as he sought to do what was best for his followers in the long run.

He must have stared too long at the warchief, for Garrosh abruptly looked back at him. The legendary warrior’s brow furrowed. “How many died to bring even these eight here?”

Briln made an estimate that included not only those lost when their ships went down but also those lost in getting the beasts to the port in Northrend. Having tried continuously to avoid thinking of those who had given their lives while he had survived, the captain was dismayed by the number he told the warchief.

Garrosh was equally dismayed and did not entirely hide that fact. “As many as that? A great price . . . but it’ll be worth their sacrifices and more when Ashenvale falls to us!” The Horde leader straightened, now looking every bit the dedicated, confident commander. “They who’ve died to bring these beasts here will stand beside us in spirit as we crush our foes! When the last outpost falls, this victory will belong as much to them as to those of us who are there to see it happen!”

His vow brought cheers from those surrounding him, even Briln. If he was to be executed, he hoped that at least he would be remembered along with all the other dead involved in this mission. It was more than he could ask.

“Captain Briln.”

The mariner swallowed. He immediately slapped his fist against his chest again, then bent his head so as to offer his neck. “My warchief, I can’t give any excuse for my failure! You command that we bring you ten, and I deliver only eight! Many of those who perished did so as part of the fleet that I oversaw!” Briln waited for Gorehowl to fall, but when the fabled axe did not cut off his head, he went on. “My warchief, I confess all these failures, all these stains to my honor, and await my fate!”

There was silence, then he heard Garrosh say, “Your honor is your life.”

“Yes, my warchief.”

“And your life you offer to me.”

Again Briln agreed. At the same time he thought to himself, My disgrace is great! Garrosh rightly makes me suffer for my failures before granting me a proper death to atone for them!

“So, if your life is mine, then your honor is mine . . . and as it is my honor at stake, I would have it redeemed in battle!”

The captain could not help gaping as he looked up. “I don’t understand, Warchief. . . .”

“You will join us as we march through Ashenvale and see your work crush the Alliance! You will stand at the forefront, and if you die, your name will be spoken with pride by our people for generations!”

Garrosh himself offered Briln a hand up. The captain stared wide-eyed.

“Your first mate will now be captain. You’ll now command soldiers in combat, and you will serve directly under me.”

Briln’s chest swelled with pride. “I will slay a hundred night elves before they bring me down! I will destroy Silverwing Outpost myself!”

The warchief chuckled. “Fight well. That’s what I ask.”

“I will!”

There was a rumble from the closest cage, but a tentative one that did not threaten. The creatures were subdued.

“We leave at sunrise tomorrow,” Garrosh announced with confidence, ignoring the fact that he had clearly just arrived himself after what must have been a strenuous ride. “The first stage of my plan’s at work on the night elves in Ashenvale already! Their communications with Darnassus are cut off and they will be making many assumptions as to what comes next based on past wars!” He gestured at the cages. “They’ll die discovering just what great fools they’ve been made. . . .”

The nearest beast rumbled again, this time seeming to echo the warchief’s triumphant tone. Briln’s grin widened. He would live to see his work unleashed upon the night elves. He would live to know that he had served the Horde well.

And he would live to see the beginning of a new world—one forged by the hand of the Horde, not the Alliance. . . .

Tyrande and Malfurion had chosen to have the summit outside, in an area often used for grand events. They could have used the temple, where they had held their wedding, but part of the choice had to do with the Gilneans. It had been agreed by both that the introduction of Genn’s people to the Alliance would be better served outside, where some of those who might be discomforted by their presence would be able to avoid feeling trapped.

Now, with seating arranged in more circular fashion save for an entrance to the east, the highest-ranking night elves seated themselves and then awaited the entrances of their guests. All had now arrived save the magi of Dalaran, whose ruling council, the Kirin Tor, had declined to send a representative due to Dalaran’s desire to remain a bridge between the two warring sides. In Dalaran, magi of the Horde were as welcome as those serving the Alliance.

Tyrande and Malfurion had the seats of honor at the opposing end from the entrance. Sentinels in their full uniforms stood as honor guard near not only the high priestess and archdruid but also the entrance, where they would flank each of the visiting contingents.

But this was more than merely the official introduction of the summit. The entrances would be climaxed by the Ceremony of Induction, when new members of the Alliance would be added by call of vote. If a new member was accepted, it made sense that its representatives would then seat themselves and become part of the discussion to follow. To wait until a gathering was nearly at the end was ludicrous.

And if a supplicant was rejected . . . it also made sense for that party to depart as quickly as possible so as to keep its shame to a minimum.

On the surface, there was no sign of the turmoil going on in Darnassus. News had reached the pair that something—exactly what it was had not been made clear—had happened to Maiev’s brother in the course of the investigation. Malfurion and Tyrande only knew that Jarod was bedridden from injury. The high priestess had sent healers, and so there was apparently no fear of permanent injury, but both leaders desired to speak with Maiev’s brother as soon as matters permitted.

Archmage Mordent had also promised that the Highborne would remain quiet about the investigation during the events, though Var’dyn had voiced some opposition to that. The spellcasters had no active role in the summit, their situation strictly a night elf matter and of no business to the Alliance as a whole.

When all were seated save for those making their entrance, Tyrande signaled the trumpeters.

The horns blared, and the procession of Alliance members commenced.

So that there would be no quarrels, the positions were chosen by lots. Thus it was that by sheer chance the first to enter were the gnomes, led by Gelbin Mekkatorque in his mechanostrider. The gnomes were followed by the representatives of Theramore, and so on.

Each contingent sought to display to the best of their abilities their prowess. Wondrous and unnerving mechanisms traveled with the gnomes. The dwarves performed martial feats with their hammers as they marched, revealing the swiftness and dexterity their stout forms belied.

Each time one faction stepped through the entrance, the anthem of its land played. At the sound of the first note, the night elves rose in respect to their guests and remained so as one group followed another.

Around the place of gathering, the banners of each delegation fluttered proud and strong, even though those in attendance did not feel any breeze themselves. The well-focused wind was the archdruid’s doing.

Each procession halted before the high priestess and archdruid. There, the ruler or lead representative was greeted by a nod from the two night elves. It was yet another manner by which the pair thanked all those who attended—and also hopefully helped put their guests in a good mood for the discussions to come.

Stormwind was one of the last to enter but was among the most impressive. Varian led a crack contingent of his finest soldiers, and he himself was clad in armor that shone like the sun, so polished it was. Across his breastplate was emblazoned a regal lion’s head. At his side was sheathed his legendary blade. Next to him strode Anduin, the prince dressed in a blue and gold suit designed for the royal court, as opposed to war.

Upon reaching Tyrande and Malfurion, Varian gave a sweeping bow. The theatrical flourish was not in keeping with his stolid demeanor, but before Malfurion or the high priestess could decipher what it might mean, the king of Stormwind had moved on.

The last of the members of the Alliance seated themselves. Tyrande looked about, saw that all awaited what was next to come. Sharing a hopeful look with the archdruid, she rose.

“Sisters and brothers of the Alliance, comrades and friends, I call for a vote to open this gathering!”

In the same order that they had entered, the representatives cast their vote as she requested. The motion was a formality and passed without any dissension.

“My friends,” Tyrande went on. “It is with gratitude that the archdruid and I greet all of you! That you have chosen to join together at this summit is a true sign of hope in a troubled time.”

There were murmurs of agreement from some of the members and their parties.

“We have many grave matters to discuss,” the high priestess continued. “Many of you have suffered dearly since the madness of Deathwing tore Azeroth asunder, and are rightfully concerned that the Alliance might demand more from your people before the lands can heal themselves. I cannot promise that this will not happen.”

Now there were wary glances. Yet, all respected Tyrande and her husband so much that no one saw fit to voice their concerns on that very subject . . . for the moment.

Malfurion’s hand touched hers. Tyrande looked at the entrance. She saw no one, but the archdruid had clearly noted some signal.

“But before we can begin those discussions in earnest, we must ensure that we do so with every possible valued member present! And today we have those who would seek to become one of us, who would seek to share in our efforts to strengthen the Alliance. . . .”

A horn sounded . . . and immediately after, the anthem of Gilneas played.

Heads turned with anticipation toward the entrance. Tyrande and Malfurion glanced at King Varian, but his expression still revealed nothing.

A stillness fell over the audience as the first figure stepped into sight. Genn Greymane. He himself bore the banner of Gilneas—a red design consisting of a circle with three vertical lines akin to lances and another line bisecting the circle itself, all set in a field of gray—into the assembly, carrying it with a pride and strength worthy of a warrior much younger. In contrast to the splendor displayed by many in the audience, Genn wore the same simple, loose garments that he had during the banquet, and when the first of his people followed him into the assembly, they were seen to be dressed similarly.

Where there had only been a small band at the banquet, with Genn now marched a number that not coincidently matched the strength of Stormwind’s contingent. Genn obviously desired to show the others that he could offer the Alliance a powerful ally.

Yet, although the men and women of Gilneas looked to be sturdy of build and clearly willing fighters, they were noticeably unarmed. Even the pole upon which their banner fluttered had no point at the top, meaning that it could not represent any sort of weapon. It was as if the Gilneans sought to prove to their counterparts that they had no use for such.

Genn paused before the night elf leaders, acknowledging them as those before had. Then, in a change from the entrance of the other kingdoms, he took the pole and thrust the bottom hard into the ground.

“Gilneas stands before you!” the king called to all around him and his followers. “Gilneas stands before you to atone for its sins by offering its might to any and all of the Alliance who need it! No truer brother will there be to any in their time of distress!”

He stepped back to join Eadrik and the others. The Gilneans formed an arc facing every direction except the entrance, pointedly making certain that no matter where one sat in the assembly, he or she would be viewing some member of Genn’s band more or less in full.

“And lest anyone think us of weak use in battle, of being unable to defend our brothers beside us, we now hope to dispel that misconception. . . .”

With that, Genn and his people transformed.

Their bodies swelled, growing a third again in girth and height. Although originally loose-fitting, the Gilneans’ clothing still proved too tight for this shift, and shirts and jerkins ripped loudly. Hair sprouted over the Gilneans’ arms, legs, chests, and faces, spreading so thick that it became fur. Beneath the fur came the sounds of cracking and popping, of bones shifting and tendons stretching into positions of which they should not have been accustomed. Their arms and legs twisted as their forms contorted, the legs turning sleeker, more akin to those of a swift predator. Each figure became hunched, but in that manner of a powerfully built beast.

As the audience watched, rapt, the Gilneans’ hands stretched and the nails grew into long, savage claws. Yet, that paled in comparison to the astounding metamorphosis of their faces. It was not just that the ears narrowed and stretched but that the mouth and nose pushed forward, melded together, and created a muzzle filled with sharp teeth capable of rending through flesh without trouble.

The worgen stood before the Alliance.

The lupine figures held their ground, although there was in them the evident urge to run, to hunt. They did not turn from the gazes of the crowd, instead staring confidently back.

Genn Greymane, his chest heaving from adrenaline, eyed Malfurion and Tyrande. They nodded in turn. There was no greater way to emphasize the worth of the Gilneans to the Alliance than for the refugees to reveal their full strength.

The Gilneans had not always been among the worgen, though, and not all of their people were affected. Many were, however . . . and it was, to Malfurion’s shame, he himself who was in great part to blame.

It had begun with other druids, those experimenting with the pack form. They had called upon the power to shift into large wolves, only to discover too late that in these forms they lost control of themselves. Blood had been shed.

Malfurion was one of those nearly lost, the aid of the demigod Cenarius all that saved him. Finally aware of the threat, Malfurion had banned the form’s use. However, unbeknownst to him, a group of druids had gathered in secret to continue its efforts. Using the legendary artifact called the Scythe of Elune, they had sought to tame the wolf form . . . only to have the scythe transform them into the first of the worgen.

Bringing the savage creatures under control, Malfurion dismissed the advice of others who demanded their destruction and cast the worgen into a pocket dimension within the Emerald Dream, where they lay in a taming sleep under the tree Daral’nir.

That was supposed to have been the end of the tragic matter—and it would have been, if not for the human archmage Arugal. Under the orders of a desperate Genn seeking aid against the Scourge outside Gilneas’s great wall, the mage had pulled the worgen to the kingdom . . . and once the curse of the worgen had entered, it spread through the populace swiftly.

Yet, the Gilneans had discovered the means to control their feral nature and turn what had been evil into—at least to a point—a force to benefit themselves in regards to not only the Alliance but also the eventual liberation of their homeland.

“We are Gilneas,” Genn Greymane rumbled, his voice still distinctly his own, albeit now with a guttural addition to it. “We are the worgen. . . .”

The king howled.

The sound was not meant to disturb or frighten, only to again point out the power of him and his people. In that, it served well, for even the dour Dark Irons looked with great respect and interest at the might of the worgen.

As Genn’s howl reached its crescendo, the others with him added their voices. Yet, even that paled when from beyond the summit, from deep within the forest, other worgen voices answered the call.

Their combined howl lasted but a scant few seconds, yet that was long enough for the moment to burn into the memories of most there. As Genn ceased—and his people near and far immediately did the same—the king of Gilneas concluded, “We humbly submit ourselves before our brethren for full membership in the Alliance. . . .”

No one responded at first, so unsettling was the sight. Rising, Malfurion pointed at the worgen. “A few of you know the old tales of the worgen and their ferocity! You know the stories of their unthinking evil! To both you and those unfamiliar with the stories, what stands before you has little link to either legends or the past! These fighters of Gilneas have tamed the curse! That which was once a deadly threat is now forevermore a force for good, a force for the Alliance!”

The archdruid’s words rang throughout the assembly. Genn and the worgen waited as the emissaries digested both what Malfurion had said and, more importantly, what they had just witnessed.

Murmuring rose among the representatives, and they quickly became more animated.

Kurdran suddenly rose. “Wildhammer welcomes the strength o’ the worgen . . . and o’ Gilneas!”

Tervosh immediately followed. “Theramore seconds that welcome!”

At these pronouncements, applause burst from many sections of the gathering, applause for Gilneas. Several of the emissaries and members of their parties saluted Genn’s people in one manner or another.

Tyrande, touching her husband’s hand, took command of events again. “You have witnessed the might of Gilneas and heard its request to enter back into the Alliance!” the high priestess called, echoing Malfurion’s sentiments. “I say that, after seeing this display and if there are no objections, we shall begin a vote for approval immediately!”

The high priestess let her gaze sweep over the assembly, focusing no longer on Stormwind than she did any other faction. There was no objection, and even Varian seemed in a reasonable mood.

“I call for a vote by acclamation!” the archdruid next proclaimed, following the course of action that they had discussed previous to the gathering. “A single voice to acknowledge the welcome of the worgen into the Alliance! All those in favor—”

The chorus of ayes began to resound, their enthusiasm matching that of the worgen’s earlier howl. Malfurion and Tyrande glanced down at Genn, who gave them a grateful look in turn.

And then, from where the contingent of Stormwind sat, King Varian silently stood.

The effect was immediate. The shouting died. The two night elves and Genn stared at Varian, whose face revealed nothing of his intentions.

“Members of the Alliance, my good night elf hosts, I’d like to speak.”

Even Prince Anduin appeared uncertain as to what his father planned, although he did not seem worried, only curious.

Tyrande signaled for attention, then said, “Stormwind has asked to speak. Please go on, King Varian.”

The ex-gladiator and slave brooded for a moment. Finally he said, “Everyone knows that there’s no love lost between Stormwind and Gilneas. Everyone knows why.”

Utter quiet fell upon the assembly. Genn’s expression was unreadable as he waited for Varian to go on, but his ears lay flat in concern.

A Sentinel suddenly stood behind the high priestess. Tyrande touched Malfurion’s hand again, and he nodded to indicate that he would keep the proceedings going. The archdruid understood that whatever it was that would make someone interrupt the high priestess at such a delicate time had to be as significant as the murders of the two Highborne.

A third? he wondered. Praying that it was not so, the archdruid leaned forward so as to indicate to Varian that while Tyrande might have to leave, it was no slight to Stormwind.

Varian cocked his head as if to say he took no insult from the high priestess’s departure. The lord of Stormwind then continued, “The benefit that an ally such as Gilneas offers us is obvious. While our skills in combat more than match those of the orcs and their allies, there’s always been a hunger that the Horde has thrived upon that we—so civilized—no longer seem to have. The worgen offer us that righteous hunger to overcome all obstacles in battle, to keep the Alliance from splintering or merely sitting back as the orcs take one land after another. . . .”

Genn’s eyes widened, and even Malfurion could not help but feel his hope stir at such a speech.

“I considered damned long and hard on this, I promise you,” Varian told all. “Such an ally can help us easily hold the Horde’s ambitions at bay, maybe even push them back!” The king indicated Genn and the Gilneans. “An ally of such honor, of such courage, I’d be more than pleased to fight beside!”

His words brought cheer. Even the worgen could no longer restrain themselves, several of the younger ones giving out short howls.

Varian now turned his attention to Malfurion. “Archdruid! You called before for a vote by acclamation, a vote I interrupted! My apologies for letting that happen! I’d meant to ask to speak sooner. . . .”

Smiling, Malfurion answered, “I would be happy to call for it again, King Varian—”

“That won’t be necessary.” The human monarch’s expression went through a stunning transformation. A dark cast spread over it as Varian eyed Genn Greymane.

Varian spat in the Gilnean’s direction.

“Calling for it again would be a waste of time,” the lord of Stormwind snarled at his counterpart below, “for I’d never give consent to allow these mongrels into the Alliance!”

Shouts of consternation erupted, especially among the worgen. The one that was Eadrik took a step toward Varian, but Genn grabbed the young warrior’s shoulder and pulled him back. The two worgen bared their teeth at one another, Eadrik quickly becoming cowed.

“Honor and trust! These are what the Alliance needs, not these beasts that even when they paraded as men were lacking in both! What happens if they choose to cut themselves off once more? Will they even bother to give us warning? Can we trust them even to do that?” Varian snapped his fingers, and his retinue joined him on their feet, Anduin the last and most hesitant. “As I’ve already said to many, I find nothing worthy, nothing honorable, in this pack of hounds . . . and so I will never vote aye to their admission back into the fold!”

And with that, Varian led Stormwind out of the summit as chaos erupted among the other representatives and Malfurion Stormrage watched all his hopes crumble before his eyes.