Wolfheart

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 calmly 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 river.

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.

Without at first understanding what she did, the bitter commander charged toward the river. As she rode, reflexes took over, and out came the glaive. When an orc stood in her path, his eyes showing his eagerness for her blood, she rewarded him with a toss of the triple-bladed weapon that shot forth with the speed of an arrow and cut a swath through his barrel chest. Haldrissa had already caught the bloody glaive and ridden past before the orc’s corpse could even fall face first into the water.

On the other side, someone shouted her name. The commander stirred from her obsession just enough to see Denea staring wide-eyed at her. Two other mounted Sentinels from her outpost also paused to watch.

Haldrissa paid them no more mind. Only Garrosh Hellscream mattered. Despite a magnataur noticing her, the veteran warrior urged her nightsaber on.

A huge hand grabbed at the commander, but Haldrissa managed to evade the grasping fingers. She rode under the behemoth, avoiding a moving leg. Ahead, an orc mounted on a huge wolf saw her fast approaching and moved to intercept.

She could not throw the glaive here, but was more than practiced at using it hand-to-hand. Haldrissa blocked the axe that came at her chest, then slashed with the curved edge of one blade. The glaive tore through the orc’s throat, nearly beheading him. He tumbled back, dead.

But other orcs now saw her and seemed aware that she could be so close for only one reason. They moved to surround the night elf, who vaguely registered that she was going to die here, only yards from her goal.

However, no sooner did the first of the reinforcements join her original foe than he was attacked by another mounted Sentinel. Haldrissa saw that it was Denea. The younger officer fought with a zeal that showed that she understood what her commander hoped to do regardless of the consequences.

Denea was not alone, either. Suddenly several survivors of Haldrissa’s command closed with the orcs. With them were some of Silverwing’s warriors, including both Su’ura and the rogue. The enemy was now temporarily outnumbered. Two orcs fell swiftly. Haldrissa’s makeshift attack force pushed deeper. At last she could see Garrosh himself. The first of his guards faced her. Around Haldrissa, Denea and the others who had joined the commander fought valiantly to create an opening.

But time was running out. Haldrissa knew that. The longer she remained unable to reach the warchief, the more likely that she never would.

A night elf perished with an axe buried in her chest. Another simply vanished in the melee, her riderless mount battling that of an orc. Haldrissa’s comrades were forced to bunch together as more orcs and even tauren moved in from other positions.

Garrosh, seemingly oblivious to the struggle so near him, continued toward the river. Haldrissa swore. There were too many foes between her and the warchief. She had lost her chance . . . and soon she would lose her life.

For nothing.

The trumpeter blew the note to press the attack. The Horde ranks began crossing the river again, the magnataur leaving them an open path occasionally littered by the ghastly remains of their victims.

Haldrissa eyed the trumpeter, then urged her cat on. Caught up in the Horde’s impending triumph, the orc did not notice her approach.

The commander threw the glaive.

The orc turned just as the spinning weapon reached him. The movement upset some of Haldrissa’s accuracy, and though the blade all but sheared his neck in half—leaving no doubt to the trumpeter’s death—the glaive dropped to the ground a short distance farther instead of returning.

“Damn!” Dismounting, Haldrissa ignored the lost weapon and rushed to the body. She found the horn still clutched tightly in one hand. Too tightly, in fact: it took all her strength to force open the fingers enough to pull the horn free.

No one was looking. Thanking Elune for this last chance, the veteran warrior put the horn to her lips and blew.

She knew from past experience some of the general calls used by the Horde. Advance and retreat were the most obvious. Haldrissa now blew the latter as best as she could recall and prayed that in the heat of battle most of those who would heed such a call would not recognize any mistake.

At first it seemed that nothing was happening. Haldrissa blew again. As she finished, she saw the first rows, already almost across, falter. Even the magnataur hesitated.

With all her breath, the night elf blew a third time.

The Horde lines began to return. Their faces were filled with confusion, a contrast to their expressions during their confident rush forward. That confusion grew and the retreating enemy now ran faster.

Managing to inhale enough air, Haldrissa sounded the call one more time.

Even the magnataur began to turn back. One tauren tried to wave the leader back to the front, only to be crushed under one heavy foot as the behemoth, entirely ignorant of his victim, thundered back into the forest from which he and the others had emerged.

“Give me that!” rumbled an orc voice.

She lunged away from the speaker in the direction of her glaive, all the while clutching the horn. In the distance Haldrissa heard the other trumpeters now repeating the call to retreat. They were taking their cue from what they believed to be the master trumpeter with Garrosh. If her adversary succeeded in taking the horn and then blowing the attack once more, all her work would be for nothing.

Her hand came down by the glaive just as an axe tried to cut the appendage off. Haldrissa bit her lip as the edge of the axe left a long, bleeding line across the back of her hand and part of her wrist. Despite the pain, she managed to seize the glaive and turn in time to deflect a second strike.

He has one eye, just like me, Haldrissa could not help thinking upon first seeing her adversary. He was also an older representative of his race, as she was. However, orcs had never had immortality and thus, compared chronologically to her, he was an infant. In terms of suffering, though, they were akin to one another.

“Give me the horn, night elf. . . . I’ll not let you steal my last glory! I brought them all the way from Northrend for this!”

Without a moment’s hesitation the commander slammed the horn against the ground. When that proved insufficient to break it, she quickly brought her glaive down on it.

A harsh pain erupted from her heart. Acting almost as swiftly, the orc had tried to keep her from destroying the horn. He had succeeded in killing Haldrissa—she knew the wound was fatal—but from his disgusted expression, he understood very well that her death still meant her victory.

Someone far away called Haldrissa’s name. She had a vague image of Denea and the others—far less in number than had followed their aging commander—being forced to retreat. The commander’s own mount lay dead, several heavy gashes inflicted by either her opponent or some unseen enemy having done in the brave animal.

Her vision grew blurred. A murky figure stepped right in front of her. Haldrissa tried to raise her glaive, but there was too much pain from her chest. No longer caring about war, Haldrissa tried to grab the pain and remove it, but all she did was grasp futilely at the gaping wound.

“You fought bravely,” she heard the older orc grumble. “You fought cleverly. You don’t deserve such slow, painful dying, night elf.”

Somehow she nodded. What he said made perfect sense. She had fought long and hard for her people. It was time to rest. If only the pain would go away, she could rest.

The axe caught her along the throat, cutting deep and at last rewarding Haldrissa’s valor with rest.