Wolfheart

17 Into the Forest

The next day came, and still the outpost was not attacked. Haldrissa would have taken heart save for the fact that by now she knew better. The Horde was merely implementing the next stage of whatever plan its commander in Ashenvale had in mind. She already knew that whoever was in charge was high among the leadership, certainly picked by the new warchief, Garrosh Hellscream.

An hour after dawn, the gates swung wide open and a force of mounted Sentinels supported by archers and warriors on foot rushed out to confront whoever might be there. Haldrissa led the charge herself, her nightsaber roaring eagerly as the scent of the orcs reached it.

But although they found traces of the archers, there were no actual sightings of the Horde. It was as if they had melted back into shadow once their foul task had been accomplished.

Denea was blunt in her assessment. “We should have charged out during the night. I knew we should have.”

Haldrissa ignored the slight to her decision. The commander considered her options again. Of all the outposts, the two most significant were her own—in great part due to its central proximity to the rest of those lining Alliance-held lands—and Silverwing. Silverwing was unique. It was a bastion of defense in, of all places, hostile territory, the Horde’s outpost of Splintertree not all that far to the northeast. Even when the orcs had pushed forward elsewhere, Silverwing had prevailed. It maintained itself through the bravery of its fighters and a thin patch of ground connecting it to the rest of the Alliance territory.

There had been no contact with Silverwing, but that did not mean that it had fallen. The smoke that they had seen from their position had been more to the north. Silverwing was slightly more south and across the Falfarren River. Haldrissa suspected that the smoke came from one of the lesser outposts, likely Forest Song. She hoped that the defenders there had managed to hold, especially since she could do nothing for them at the moment.

The fact that there had been no hint of Silverwing’s downfall encouraged the commander, but she knew that she had to act fast. If they could link up with Silverwing, they would present the Horde with a more solidified front.

There was no need to wait for word from Darnassus. It was clear that Aradria had perished even if her body had not been discovered by the supply wagons. There would be no help until communication could be reestablished and that would take some time. She already had three nightsaber riders heading west, but suspected that whatever the Horde commander had in mind would be unleashed before the capital could send help.

“Silverwing . . . Denea, I need our force divided in two, one to defend here, another to march with us to Silverwing. This moment.”

“We ride there today?”

“That depends on you.” Haldrissa did not care if Denea took any offense at her words or tone. The commander had no more patience, and her second had to be reminded who was still in charge.

Perhaps in order to prove that Haldrissa had underestimated her, Denea had the outpost’s contingent divided up within the hour. Even still, it felt like much too long. The commander kept waiting for the Horde to suddenly attack again. They did not, but whether that was a good sign, she could not yet say.

She considered leaving Denea in charge, but chose instead to appoint one of the other officers. Haldrissa would need her most efficient officers at the front, and Denea was certainly the best of those, ambitions aside.

The column moved out cautiously, with scouts riding ahead and reporting back on a regular basis. The only traces of the Horde were footprints, and those tended to be so mixed in direction it was difficult to follow any trail from them.

Haldrissa did not like the unpredictability of the Horde strategy of late. This was not the type of war that she was used to fighting. Whoever coordinated the enemy’s efforts constantly left her guessing. She could only hope that her own decisions would counter whatever they planned.

Though the world has changed so much, at least war should remain a comfortable constant, Haldrissa mused darkly. She wished that they had already reached Silverwing. Knowing that they could then make a proper stand against whatever the orcs wanted to throw at them would go a great way toward easing her mind. Give her a clean, straightforward battle with all the accompanying traditions, not perplexing tricks such as the Horde was suddenly using.

Give her war as it was meant to be.

There was war . . . and Varian could not have cared less.

His son had left him. Anduin had left him.

How his opponents in the arenas would have mocked the onetime gladiator for his mournful state . . . had any of them survived. The great Lo’Gosh teary-eyed for his child.

A messenger had delivered the news of war to Varian and his people at the same time that the other members of the Alliance had been notified. The high priestess had some notion of rushing a force to Ashenvale and had asked the others for whatever assistance they could muster on short notice. Naturally Stormwind would help, but that did not matter in the least to Varian. Azeroth meant nothing to him. Anduin had left him . . . and he knew that it was his fault that the boy had.

This was just the latest failure on his part, the latest proof that he would have been better off having remained bereft of his memory and fighting day after day for his life against the other dregs of the world. Better yet, he should have died when his father had; then Tiffin would have never married him and been condemned as another victim of his cursed life. Anduin would have been safe, too, for he—

He would have never existed.

Swearing at himself, Varian downed the last of the wine. He yearned for some good Stormwind whiskey or something not so sweet as night elven wine. Still, enough of it would drown out his thoughts for a time.

That essential mission in mind, Varian ordered his frustrated guards to find him more wine or dwarven ale. He, in turn, sat in a chair facing the quarters where Anduin had recently slept, and buried himself deep in his self-recriminations.

True to his word, the prince had left with the draenei. Varian’s own departure had been temporarily delayed. He did not want to return to Stormwind without his son . . . not yet.

I’ve lost him, Tiffin. . . . I lost you and now I’ve lost him. . . .

There was a knock at the door. His eyes still fixed on Anduin’s quarters, the king frowned. His servants had orders to bring whatever alcohol they found right to him. That meant ignoring protocol about entering the presence of their ruler. The sooner he could drink himself deeper into oblivion, the better.

“Come in, damn you!” he roared when they still did not enter. “And bring what drink you’ve found quickly!”

The door opened at last, but the voice that followed was one of the last Varian wanted to hear. “I have brought no spirits, but thought there might be a way to raise yours.”

The king still did not turn away from his son’s quarters. “You’ll forgive me if I’m in no mood for company, not even yours.”

Malfurion walked around Varian, blocking his view. “Anduin would not want you like this, especially because of some argument with him. Neither would your wife.”

The king frowned. “Please leave, Archdruid.”

Undaunted, Malfurion said, “If it is not a talk you desire, perhaps you would like to find a way to more directly vent your frustrations.”

Despite himself, Varian was interested. “If you’ve something to keep me from thinking for a while, name it.”

“Something much better than all this drinking. A hunt.”

“A hunt?” He sat up. “You, a druid, want to take me on a hunt? Doesn’t that go against your beliefs?”

“The hunt is an essential part of nature. It keeps the balance. We do not condemn the bear—or the wolf—for its part in it, and if men, night elves, and others take but what they need and respect where that bounty comes from, there is no contradiction. Azeroth nourishes us and, in return, those of my calling aid it in whatever little fashion we can.”

“‘Whatever little fashion’ . . . I know the extent of your power, Archdruid.”

Malfurion shrugged. “I have been blessed with gifts, but they come with responsibility.”

Varian nodded. “The price of true leadership is to understand that all the advantages come with heavy responsibility. I know that too well.”

“Enough of this talk, though. I only came to offer you respite through a hunt. If you are not interested . . .”

The king rose. “Oh, I’m interested.”

“Good! We can gather your men—”

This earned the archdruid a snort of derision. “I’m not like some of those overfed monarchs who play at hunting by having a hundred beaters frighten some poor beast out of the bush so that he and his pathetic courtiers can surround it and either hack it to death or fill it with enough arrows to make it look like a pincushion! That’s not hunting; that’s true barbarism that even the orcs wouldn’t accept! No . . . I prefer to hunt alone, with just my bow and my stealth. If that’s enough, I bring home food. If not, the beast proves himself my better.”

“A reasonable point.” The night elf gestured to the door. “Then it will be just you and me.”

“You’re going to hunt too? You can call the beasts right to you! What sort of hunting is that?”

The archdruid simply smiled. “You do not know me if you think I would abuse my power in that manner. Come, we will see who fares best.”

Eager to do whatever he could to forget Anduin’s flight, Varian did not hesitate any longer. He seized his bow and quiver from where they were stored and, with the night elf leading, gratefully abandoned his quarters.

As they departed, two of his servants returned. Both had been successful in their efforts to procure wine or ale.

“Leave those inside,” the king decided, just in case the night elf’s offer proved insufficient to fix what was ailing him. “The archdruid and I are going for a walk. Alone.”

The guards eyed the bow but, as usual, did not protest. Varian forgot them as he kept pace with the night elf. Already, doubts were creeping into him. Alone, he might find the hunt to his liking, but if he had to have the night elf at his side at all times, he could not pursue his quarry as he needed. That would only serve to stifle Varian.

He was ready to turn around and head back to the wine and ale when at last they reached a segment of the forest far from any visible night elven structure. Malfurion let his guest view the area in silence.

“Looks like good hunting territory,” Varian admitted. He eyed the archdruid, who was only armed with a staff. “You plan on using that thing?”

In answer, Malfurion set it against a tree. “No, I prefer to hunt as the animals hunt . . . and as one.”

Now at last the human understood what the night elf intended. “You’re going to become a cat!”

“Is that fair enough a hunt?”

Varian chuckled, surprising himself. “It still won’t be enough, if you mean will you be more successful than me. Do we hunt together?”

“I thought we would meet back here. I will hunt this direction,” and he pointed slightly to the north. “And you can go that direction. I promise you will have plenty to pursue there.”

“Suits me.”

“Then the best of luck! May you find what you seek!” With that, the archdruid transformed. He slumped forward, falling upon all fours. His hands became padded paws with sharp claws and his garments melted into the ether, to be replaced by sleek, dark fur. His face widened and his nose and mouth became a blunt muzzle.

A powerful nightsaber stood next to the king.

“You’ll still need a lot of luck to do better,” Varian challenged, now completely caught up in the affair.

The cat rumbled in what could only be called an amused tone, then lunged off among the trees.

“Ha!” Varian did not let his opponent get very much of a leap ahead. The king darted into his area of the forest, his senses coming alive as he moved. Already he had the bow strung and an arrow nocked. The only other weapon was the knife he wore at his waist. That would only be needed if something happened to his bow or the prey survived his shot and he had to end its pain quickly.

His ears picked up movement. Varian smelled deer. It was impossible for him to describe to others how he became during a hunt save that the king transformed into something more . . . free.

Free.

The deer was close. Varian tightened his grip on the string. He rarely needed more than one shot to down his prey. He felt obligated to do his best to honor the kill, just as the night elf had indicated he did.

Much of Varian’s anger at Malfurion faded. The archdruid had found the one method by which to give the king some relief. He would thank Malfurion later—

The deer suddenly bolted into view. It ran toward him, not the direction Varian had anticipated. The animal, a young stag, charged into him, forcing the king to leap out of the way.

And as he did, he came face to face with another hunter.

A worgen.

The furred hunter looked more startled than Varian. The two faced off against one another as the stag fled to freedom.

“You . . . ,” rasped the worgen. “You’re—”

“Varian Wrynn!” snarled a hated voice.

A second worgen burst into the area. His fur was frost white save for the head and mane, which retained some charcoal black. The newcomer’s glittering blue eyes were filled with such bitterness that Varian instinctively held his bow ready. Behind the second worgen followed nearly a dozen others, all moving with a clear subservience to this later arrival.

“You’ve got a lot of gall coming here!” As the second worgen spoke, he changed. He shrank slightly and his fur seemed to just dissipate.

Genn Greymane gestured at the bow. “Fire away! You’ve already more or less struck me through the heart! My people will suffer for your choice—”

Varian lowered the bow. “I’ll not waste an arrow on you. Bad enough you’ve ruined my hunt! Did you hope to convince me to change my mind by coming here?”

“You talk madness! We always hunt here! You’re not far from our encampment and you know it!”

“I don’t—” The former gladiator realized that he had been outmaneuvered and he knew by whom. He looked around, no longer as furious with the Gilneans as he was with another. “Where are you, archdruid? You think this funny?”

“‘Archdruid’?” Genn looked baffled.

“I do not find anything humorous about the last few days’ events,” Malfurion Stormrage replied from behind Varian. “As for Genn and the other worgen hunting here, the knowledge had completely slipped my mind.”

The archdruid was the image of innocence. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Varian found he could not bring himself to accuse the night elf outright. Glancing at Genn, he saw that the other king felt likewise.

“This area is too crowded for hunting, Archdruid,” the lord of Stormwind finally remarked. “And I’ve lost my taste for it, anyway.”

“Good,” interjected Genn with a hint of disdain. “You’d probably end up blundering into us over and over as you go stomping through the forest, scaring off all the game. . . .”

“There’ll never be a day when I can’t outhunt you or any of your dogs, Greymane,” Varian retorted, advancing on Genn.

“Ha!” The other king also advanced. “One of our younglings could catch a buck faster than you! As for me, I could take down a dozen before you managed to nick even one with those puny little bolts!”

“Always big with the boasts, but never able to follow through with them—”

“If I might intercede.” Malfurion came between the two monarchs. “There is little point in such words unless you have the wherewithal to prove your own case.”

“That’s always been the trouble with Greymane—”

“Spoken like the self-righteous—”

A thunderclap echoed through the vicinity. Ears flattening, the other worgen were cowed.

Seemingly oblivious to his own display of power, the archdruid went on, “As I said, there is little point in braying at one another without being able to justify those words. Perhaps it is time to show what, if any, strength lies behind them.”

“What’re you talking about?” Varian snapped. Genn nodded toward his rival, indicating the question was foremost on his mind as well.

“You could both go your separate ways and continue this endless argument . . . or you could put some conclusion to your disagreements by seeing who does have the better skill.”

“You think to throw us together,” Genn snarled, “and make us see each other in a different light! Ha! I know this one well enough—too well, after his damning words. . . .”

“Damning in their truth,” Varian retorted. “But I’ll agree with Genn on your intentions, Archdruid . . . and also agree that it won’t work.”

“Then, the two of you have nothing to fear.”

“It has nothing to do with fear,” the Gilnean king grumbled. “Damnation! Even if I deigned to hunt with this one around, he’d be stumbling over everything. . . .” Without warning, Genn transformed again. “Now forgive me, Malfurion, but we’ve lost enough time. We don’t hunt for sport. We hunt.”

Genn darted into the brush. The other worgen turned and followed without a sound.

“Fool Gilneans,” Varian muttered, more to himself than to the archdruid.

“My apologies for any offense I have caused,” Malfurion respectfully said.

Varian paid him no mind. “Give him furs, claws, even wings, Greymane’s no hunter. Still all bluster, even after all the ruin he’s caused himself and his kingdom. . . .”

The archdruid gestured in a direction leading away from the worgen. “If you still want to hunt, you will find good game that way, Varian.”

The king continued to glare at where his rival had last been visible.

“Varian?”

Without a word, the king darted after the worgen.