Wolfheart

27 The Horde Ascendant

The Alliance lines struggled to re-form. Shandris knew that they had little time; if she were Garrosh—as repugnant a thought as she could imagine—she would get the Horde and, especially, the magnataur to turn around and resume the attack. Even if he did not know about the success of his archers in bringing down Tyrande, he would not want to waste the chaos he had already sown.

Tyrande . . . Shandris fought back a shiver. The archers had come closer to killing the high priestess than they even knew. Of course, none of them had survived to tell their master; Shandris had spotted them too late for her mother, but not too late to have her own archers shoot them.

The Sisters of Elune prayed feverishly over Tyrande, who was better but not yet whole. There had been something on the arrow heads that persisted in her body. She would recover, but it would take time.

And time they did not have, for even as Shandris got something of a semblance of order set up near the river, she heard horns in the forest beyond sounding over and over. There was no doubt in her mind that the defenders were mere moments from a new attack, and this time there would be no fortuitous and epic charge such as Denea and the handful of survivors had informed her Commander Haldrissa had bravely led. Haldrissa’s choice to convert a failed attempt to kill Garrosh into a trick that had turned defeat into reprieve would be sung by night elves for generations to come . . . assuming that there were generations to come.

Shandris eyed the forest to the north; the land rose higher there, low hills that, given other circumstances, might have proved valuable in a counterattack. She wished that they had been able to set up an outpost there back when the entire land had been theirs, but now it was impossible.

The general surveyed the rest of the region and had to admit that Haldrissa had arranged matters as well as anyone could. Shandris had noticed that some of the younger officers, including Denea, had laid hints that perhaps their commander should be permanently shunted aside, but they had renounced any such thoughts after her bravery. Older Haldrissa might have gotten, but she had gotten older because she was good.

And a lot of other night elves will not be getting any older after this day is over. . . .

“Take over!” she ordered one of her aides. Turning her nightsaber, she headed back to where the other priestesses had Tyrande. One of attendants looked up as she approached, but the general had no interest in anyone but her mother. Fortunately, to Shandris’s great pleasure, Tyrande’s eyes were open.

“My daughter,” she greeted the general.

Not caring how it might appear, Shandris dismounted and went to hug the high priestess. Tyrande returned the hug with equal vigor.

“You are well?” Shandris asked.

“I still have some trouble focusing, but, yes . . . I am fairly well.” She stared deep into the general’s eyes. “They are coming.”

Tyrande was not asking, but rather informing. Shandris was not surprised. “I expect that they will be at the edge of the forest in two minutes at most.”

The high priestess pushed herself up onto her elbows, then had to shut her eyes a moment. “Whatever Garrosh had the archers use, it was very potent . . . not that my wounds were anything small. The Horde has expert shots.”

“And we had better ones. The Horde paid.” A new horn sounded. This time, it was an Alliance horn.

“Bring me Ash’alah,” demanded the high priestess.

“You are not well enough—” Shandris began, only to stop when Tyrande gave her a look. Rather than argue when orcs were about to rush down on them, the general gave Tyrande a hand up.

One of the priestesses brought forth Ash’alah for Tyrande. She mounted and, after Shandris had done the same, the pair raced off to the front.

Horns began to blow in earnest across the Alliance lines. They seemed to echo those coming from the forest. Still none of the enemy was visible to either Shandris or Tyrande, but something had surely caught the attention of the sentries.

What it was became evident as they rode up. The treetops were shaking.

The magnataur were on the move.

“Fire arrows,” Shandris decided. “We send enough fire arrows, we burn down the forest and send the magnataur running for their damned lives. . . .”

“‘Burn down the forest’?” Tyrande took a breath and straightened. Then, “Perhaps you are right. . . .”

“I do not know if I am. . . . The fire might just make them meaner. . . . I do not know what else to do.” The general looked at Tyrande. “Unless Elune—”

“The Mother Moon does not exist to answer our every demand like a servant,” the high priestess replied. “But I have been praying to her constantly since I awoke.”

“And?”

“And all I know is that we must fight and accept either death or survival.”

Shandris grunted. “I just love Elune.” She checked that her glaive was secure, then readied her bow. “She ought to consider how lonely it might be for her without us.”

“Shandris—”

The general chuckled darkly. “I am only jesting.”

The treetops nearest to the river began shaking. The general sent out the order for fire arrows to her messengers, who rushed to tell the archer commanders. As the riders vanished on their missions, a familiar but still horrifying roar burst from the forest ahead. It was answered by five equally monstrous calls.

“Keep praying, Mother,” Shandris said as she rode forward. “Keep praying. . . .”

“I have never stopped,” Tyrande replied, the high priestess following her daughter into war . . . and probably doom.

It did not matter that the magnataur had already ripped paths to the Alliance lines. Weak things such as trees were easily shoved aside. The titanic creatures from Northrend tore asunder the forest as they reached the river. It was not as if their masters cared. The Horde wanted Ashenvale most of all for its timber, and the destruction of the forest by the angry behemoths would only make the harvesting that much quicker once the enemy was dead.

The orcs and their allies followed behind, although not too close behind. Several had died in the retreat of the magnataur, the creatures not discriminating between trees in their path or soft, crushable bodies. Both the magnataur and the fighters following were more than eager for blood after the trickery they had faced earlier. Slaves to Garrosh the behemoths might be, but they did not like being made the fools any more than an orc or tauren or even a goblin.

And there was more than enough Alliance blood to satiate them.

The moment the lead magnataur bull broke through to the river, flaming arrows assailed him. Several struck the nearby trees, but not enough to start a blaze. Those that hit the magnataur only made him angrier as he brushed them away like so many gnats. Even then, the barrage continued, spreading as the other bulls also reached the river.

There was no signal to tell the titanic monsters to keep moving. As Shandris had surmised, Garrosh had no desire to let the Alliance regroup anymore than it could. The warchief would crush his enemies here and now and take Ashenvale in one swift, sweeping victory.

Horde archers began firing the moment that they reached their designated positions. Their return fire forced the Alliance archers to shoot back at them and left fewer to try to turn back the magnataur with the fire arrows.

The latter mission was not progressing well, anyway, Shandris saw as she shot a grinning troll through the chest. They would have needed much more fire to turn away the beasts.

Moonlight suddenly shone in the faces of the magnataur, even though there was no moon to create it. Shandris smiled, but the smile faltered as the magnataur proved to be unaffected. They were creatures of Northrend and as such lived in a place where snow and ice could be even more blinding. They were adapted to survive such conditions, and now those made yet another potent weapon of the defenders moot.

The lead bull crossed the river. It did not take him much effort. As he came onshore, lancers charged at his legs, seeking to wound one and possibly cause him to lose his balance. They might as well have been more gnats. The magnataur grabbed two cats and smashed them and their riders into a stomach-churning, unidentifiable mess that he afterward tossed among the defenders.

Now a horn sounded from the Horde side. With wild, eager cries, Garrosh’s warriors at last rushed forward.

“We have no choice but to meet them!” Tyrande called to her.

“I know!” Shandris gave the signal.

The regiments in wait surged toward the river. As they did, the archers up front retreated under cover from comrades behind them. More lancers joined the Alliance push.

The armies came together, the clash of arms playing over and over. Night elves fell. Orcs died. And though they were the dominant forces of the opposing sides, they were each joined in death by many allies: tauren, human soldiers from Theramore, dwarves of the three clans, troll warriors, and more. Shandris could not see the entire battle, but she knew that scores perished in the first few seconds alone.

But worst of all, the magnataur were unstoppable. They ripped through the Sentinels as if the seasoned warriors were stalks of wheat and the magnataur were reapers. Bodies lay everywhere and in every sickening condition. The night elves tried in vain to focus on the behemoths, Horde archers keeping any attempt to attack the magnataur from even beginning. Thus left unchecked, the fearsome creatures continued to wreak their havoc.

The priestesses of Elune both fought and healed, and because of that they and their leader were also special targets of any Horde archer. Despite the Mother Moon’s blessing, Sisters were not indestructible, as Tyrande had almost proven herself. Their numbers were depleted quickly and those still left were forced to take greater defense and thus become less effective in aiding their comrades.

Although commander of the Sentinels, Shandris did not shirk from the struggle, either. When not making expert use of her bow, she threw her glaive again and again, and rarely did she miss with either weapon. She also had to shield herself from more than her share of arrows and other weapons intent on ending the life of one of those most essential to the hopes of the faltering defenders.

Tyrande also fought. She had faced demons, shadow creatures, orcs, and more in her long life, and fell into the rhythm of war with more ease than she cared to think about. Yet, for every enemy that fell, there seemed a dozen more.

And again, there were always the magnataur.

The Sentinel lines finally cracked.

“We cannot hold them here!” Tyrande shouted. “The riverbank is lost! Pull back!”

Shandris grabbed the lead trumpeter. “Sound the call! We move to the secondary position!”

The trumpeter blew hard, her notes picked up by the other surviving trumpeters. Tyrande and Shandris had decided on a backup position a little farther in, where the natural rise of the area would give them a bit of a defensive wall. Against the magnataur it would be nothing, but it would at least slow the Horde itself.

As best they could, the Sentinels and their allies moved. They did battle all the way, the archers trying to buy some distance between the defenders and the attackers. The magnataur, caught up in their eagerness for destruction, did not follow the Horde at first, buying the Alliance a few precious seconds.

But a few seconds were indeed all that bought, and as Tyrande and Shandris fell back with the rest, both were keenly aware that from their second position . . . there was nowhere left to go.

Ashenvale was falling.

Ashenvale falls, Garrosh Hellscream thought with growing anticipation. Ashenvale falls, Father!

Garrosh wondered how his father would have viewed this victory. Would he have been proud? Even eight magnataur had proven enough to easily crush the decadent Alliance. They had been all he needed to tilt the balance once and for all.

This land will help us grow, he thought as he surged forward with the rest of his loyal force. A Sentinel caught behind the collapse of her lines sought to bring more glory to her doom by suddenly leaping up from the dead to attack him. She proved to be a decent adversary, briefly stalling his advance, and so when Gorehowl ripped through both her breastplate and her torso, he wished her spirit well in the afterlife.

This would be a battle of which the young would be taught forever. Every family would have heroes to name in the festivals that would come after the war’s triumphant end.

Even the legendary Thrall, Garrosh’s predecessor—even Thrall, who had been reluctant to renew the struggle for Azeroth—would surely call Garrosh the champion of the orc race and of all the Horde.

Ashenvale is ours . . . and the rest of Azeroth will follow. . . . There is nothing more mighty than the Horde . . . nothing that the Alliance can do to change what fate demands of this new world. . . .

One had to be strong in the Azeroth that Deathwing had created. The Alliance had once been so, but it was of the past. The Horde was of the future.

Garrosh was the future.

He almost pitied the night elves and their ilk. They fought bravely but without a chance. They acted as if there were hope, when it was obvious there was not. Garrosh had used the very summit intended to bring his enemies together in order to catch them most off guard. The other factions of the Alliance had provided the night elf force with the handful of supporters that he had calculated. By the time Theramore and the others were able to send greater numbers, the Horde would have Ashenvale secured.

Ashenvale is ours, the warchief repeated to himself, savoring that fact. Ashenvale is—

An unearthly howl arose from the forest to the north. The warchief missed a step as he looked that direction. He knew wolves, dire wolves, and most of their cousins, and this sounded like none of those.

The howl repeated, this time much stronger, much more challenging, and Garrosh knew right away that it challenged the Horde. Moreover, he was not the only one. Everywhere, orcs and others hesitated, eyed the forest, and clutched their weapons a little tighter. Even the magnataur looked up in curiosity at this sharp cry.

And from the forest there answered a multitude of similar howls. Even from where he stood, Garrosh could hear the shaking of leaves and brush as something that seemed as massive in its own way as the magnataur closed on the battlefield.

Recovering, he raised Gorehowl and opened his mouth to shout orders.

Stunned yells arose from those warriors farther to the north, the ones who had been passing through the forest toward the night elves’ position. Those shouts were followed by growls and screams.

“To the north, you fools!” Garrosh commanded. “To the north—”

Out they flowed, a river of dark death. Wave after wave of sleek, furred forms. The orcs, trolls, and tauren Garrosh saw in their path went down in a flash of weapons and claws. The fiends moved like the wind and spread out as they met the Horde.

But most amazing of all was that at their head ran a human. Yet, he moved like no human, but indeed seemed more a wolf than even the dread fighters who flanked him. He wielded a sword that glittered and that identified him to Garrosh from clear across the terrain.

“The sword Shalamayne . . . ,” Garrosh snarled, his fury rising swiftly. “Varian Wrynn . . .”