Wolfheart

28 The Sword and the Axe

It had taken every resource for Varian to get himself, his crew, and, most of all, the worgen to Ashenvale in time. In truth, he had expected to come to find that all had been laid waste in the Alliance-held lands and that everyone he knew among the defenders was dead. Yet, as the ship had dropped anchor as near as they could and the worgen disembarked, he had suddenly been filled with a sense that, not only had he not arrived too late, but his belief that this had been his destiny all along was more true than he could have imagined. The moment that he stepped onto the shore of Ashenvale, Varian had felt the call of Goldrinn even more than he had during the ritual. It had grown stronger with each breath he took—so strong that he finally no longer resisted it but fully embraced it.

Clad in lightweight but durable leather armor and with Shalamayne sheathed at his side, Varian started running, running with purpose.

Genn Greymane had seen him standing there, watching the forest. The aura of Goldrinn had grown around the king of Stormwind. All the worgen could see it, even if Varian’s own people could not. Genn had realized what was about to happen and had been the one to tell those of Stormwind to follow as best they could later. Almost immediately after that point, Varian had disappeared among the trees.

Genn had followed . . . and the worgen had followed him.

Varian would recall little of the run through the forest. He only knew deep inside that somehow he ran faster than should have been possible, that he seemed to outrace time itself. The spirit of Goldrinn fueled him, the great wolf’s fury touching his heart and enabling Varian to push on and on toward his destination.

At last, sensing something, he drew to a halt as Genn and the worgen came up behind him. Genn blinked, sniffed the air again, and muttered a single word that verified Varian’s suspicions: “Horde . . .”

That word encompassed so many smells, so many aspects, of the enemy. Varian himself could smell the muskiness of the orcs and the tauren, the sweat of many trolls, the decay of the Forsaken, the smoke of many fires, and the stench that could only be attributed to goblin machines.

The other worgen raised their snouts as they, too, smelled the nearness of the enemy. Varian led them a bit closer and they caught their first glimpses of the battlefield.

At that point he had drawn Shalamayne and, seeing what he and the worgen must do, had thrust the sword forward and shouted a war cry.

The worgen had howled with him, and Genn, glancing Varian’s way, had seen the aura around the king of Stormwind radiate stronger than ever. The snarling visage of Goldrinn had loomed over the wolf Ancient’s champion.

Varian had leapt into the fray, the worgen spreading out as he had bidden them. The first of the Horde had been brought down with almost ridiculous ease, so disbelieving had they been of the sight.

Now, as the worgen spread out into the main battlefield, Varian decided on his next course of action. He wanted dearly to find Garrosh Hellscream, but such a personal battle had to take second place to the more imminent disaster.

“To me!” he roared to the nearest worgen. Without looking to see who followed, he ran—yes, ran, despite so much distance already crossed—and headed for the lead magnataur.

A shaggy tauren saw him and moved to intercept. The heavy axe created a dust cloud as it drove into the ground where Varian should have been. However, the king had moved far more swiftly than his bullheaded adversary had calculated. Varian was already to the side of the much bulkier, taller warrior. With Shalamayne, he slashed across the tauren’s torso, cutting so deeply that the tauren was dead before he fell.

The Horde ranks no longer charged forward. They were already painfully aware of a new and powerful enemy in their very midst. Yet, the orcs and their allies were not used to the fluid movements of the worgen. Underestimation of the lupine attackers led to many Horde deaths in the first few moments.

That was not to say that worgen did not perish. The Horde had not thrived without being able to adapt. Two orcs combined to catch a worgen between them. What one axe failed to strike, the other caught in the spine. Other worgen dropped with bolts through their chests or throats.

But the Horde suffered much greater. Not only was this a foe that they had never met before, but it came at them from the side, forcing them to face both the west and north at once. After all, Tyrande and Shandris were not so slow-witted as not to realize that they once again had hope. Even with the magnataur still wreaking havoc, they managed to re-form some of their lines and counterattack.

But all of this Varian only vaguely registered as his view swept from the field to his prey. The bull had turned his attention to this new enemy of his masters. A huge hand grabbed at a worgen and, while not succeeding in snatching him up, did inadvertently swipe the unfortunate Gilnean, sending him hurtling to his death.

Two orcs attacked Varian, but a worgen leapt at one, pulling the green-skinned warrior to the ground, where they struggled. The worgen’s claws tore through the throat of the orc.

Varian dodged the swing by the second orc, came under his shield, and thrust Shalamayne through the orc’s midsection. Pulling the sword free, the king then had to jump to the side as one back leg of the magnataur came down.

The gigantic creature turned. However, the magnataur were not built for speed. They did not need to be: they were so huge that they covered distance readily. However, in close combat, Varian at least had the advantage in mobility, as long as he avoided the feet or the hands. That, though, would avail him nothing in the long run, and he had no intention of merely running.

As the behemoth instinctively turned after him, Varian moved toward the hind leg again. He came within reach.

“Varian Wrynn!” roared a voice the king recognized. “Varian Wrynn, I challenge you! Turn and meet your doom!”

Varian whirled. Garrosh Hellscream, Gorehowl raised high, grinned as the two faced one another.

The human said nothing, his expression answer enough for the orc. They converged, the axe wailing as the two weapons clashed and sparks flew. The force of their strike sent both combatants stumbling back a few steps.

The warchief grinned ominously. “Such a weapon! With Gorehowl, it will make the finest comrade an orc could wield!”

“Shalamayne prefers the taste of orc blood,” Varian replied. “Yours especially. . . .”

He lunged.

The orc deflected his strike, the blade and the axe head again sending up a shower of sparks. Garrosh swung. The human countered. Again and again, the two champions found themselves as evenly matched as their fabled weapons.

“I’ve waited for this moment!” Garrosh grinned. “Our fight in Ulduar was too brief and without satisfaction, especially since I did not then have Gorehowl to match against your sword. . . .”

“My sentiments exactly!” The king deflected another strike by Gorehowl, both fighters forced to squint as sparks from the clashing weapons flew at their eyes. “I promise not to disappoint you this time . . . except when I take your head. . . .”

The orc laughed. “Your skull will have a place of honor on the gates of Orgrimmar!”

He swung Gorehowl low, seeking to catch Varian by surprise and disembowel the human. The king turned Shalamayne down and, though the angle was awkward, kept the axe from his torso.

Ignorant of the battle waging below him, the magnataur continued his turn as he hunted for the puny human. Varian saw the great leg sweeping toward them. He rolled back as Garrosh, not yet aware of the danger, readied another blow from the wailing axe.

The leg struck the orc. It was only a glancing blow, but it was enough to send Garrosh sprawling.

Unable to see what happened to Garrosh after that, Varian chose to sheathe Shalamayne. He watched as the magnataur settled in place for a moment. When that happened, Varian jumped at the leg.

The moment he grabbed hold of the magnataur’s fur, the monster roared and tried to shake him loose. But before the behemoth could, another figure clung to the other hind leg. The worgen began his climb at the same time as Varian, creating a distraction for the king.

A second worgen jumped onto the same leg as Varian. Several more quickly did the same. They were for the most part those he had commanded to follow him, but who had become momentarily separated by the battle.

Gritting his teeth, Varian pulled himself up. The first part of his plan had come into play, but now he had to follow through. Without the aid of claws, Varian still reached the back of the magnataur long before the first worgen.

The magnataur twisted as much as his upper torso would allow him. His hand came agonizingly near Varian, who drew Shalamayne and cut at the fingers. He was rewarded with the behemoth snatching the bleeding hand back, which allowed several of the worgen to make it to the king.

There was no need for words. The worgen knew their task. Like ants, they raced up and around the magnataur and, wherever their blades, maces, and other mundane weapons proved too unmanageable, began rending the flesh with their claws and even biting. The thick, tough hide of the gigantic creature protected at first, giving the magnataur the chance to try to brush off some of the vermin on him. A half dozen worgen went spilling off the beast, some managing to land well or snag hold of a leg, but others plummeting to their deaths.

But then a worgen managed the first tear in the magnataur, his success followed immediately by another. The bull howled in rage and shook back and forth. With his stocky build, especially his elephantine lower half, the magnataur could no more jump than the mammoth that part of his body resembled. Instead, he abruptly reared up on his hind legs, seeking with the unexpected motion to dislodge his attackers. Two worgen fell free, but Varian and the rest managed to maintain their grips despite this surprise.

More worgen joined those swarming the magnataur. They clambered over his back, his neck, and some of the most daring even tore into his chest. Alone or even if only a dozen or so, they would have been mere annoyances . . . but now they began to take a toll. The bull’s rage took on a hint of frustration, then pain, as he bled from more than two dozen wounds.

Shalamayne proved even better than ordinary swords and claws at cutting through the rough hide. His feet braced, his balance careful, Varian slashed again and again, opening ravines in the magnataur’s back.

Another angry bellow caught his attention. The next nearest magnataur had finally chosen to aid the bull. It was not out of any loyalty between the monsters, but rather a sense of survival. The other magnataur had realized that anything that could potentially harm their leader could next turn on the others.

Varian grinned. The reason for his grin became instantly apparent as more worgen suddenly crawled up the legs of the oncoming magnataur. No longer interested in assisting the dominant bull, the other behemoth tried in vain to clear his own hide of the rapidly increasing numbers of lupine invaders.

A battle horn blowing an Alliance signal made Varian look to the night elves’ lines. Without the magnataur in direct conflict with them, the Sentinels were able to even better regroup. What had been a rout was now more of a balanced battle again.

Varian planned to take it further than that. The worgen, heedless of their danger, did not flinch from attacking the other magnataur. Others of the great pack continued their rush into the midst of the Horde forces and, from the monster’s back, Varian could see the swath of death that the Gilneans had already made through the enemy.

The bull suddenly began to move toward the deeper forest. Varian knew what he planned: the magnataur intended to either seize a partial tree trunk and try to knock the worgen off, or begin rubbing against the standing trees in the hopes of doing the same.

Varian returned to one of the hind legs. There, he found, of all Gilneans, Genn Greymane. “Why are you here?”

“To make sure what you want done is done!” the other monarch roared back.

Varian was actually pleased to see him. “The other hind leg! We need to get down lower while he’s distracted!”

Genn looked puzzled until Varian made a cutting motion. The worgen then smiled. “I’ll take the lead with them!”

They separated without another word. Varian sheathed his sword, then began his descent. What he planned could not have been done until now. The magnataur needed to be focused on the worgen as a whole, not a few who climbed down now instead of up.

As he reached the point he desired, Varian drew Shalamayne. He glanced at the other hind leg. Despite the creature’s movement, the worgen easily clung to the limb. Genn had just reached the same level as Varian.

Without hesitation, and with his other hand and his legs holding him as best they could, Varian Wrynn used Shalamayne to cut as deep and wide a wound as he could in the back of the magnataur’s leg.

The beast roared in sudden agony. It stumbled to the side, nearly dislodging some of the worgen elsewhere. Varian hoped for the best for the brave Gilneans as he readjusted his aim and, instead of slashing, drove Shalamayne deep.

The effect was instantaneous. The bull’s leg collapsed. Sword gripped tightly, Varian threw himself free.

He landed a short distance from the crippled leg. Blood dripped out of the wound, but that was not why the leg could not hold any longer: Varian had expertly severed the tendon.

The magnataur tried to keep moving, but the damaged limb slowed him too much. It gave Genn and the worgen on the other leg the opportunity they needed. With the lord of Gilneas guiding the others, the worgen thoroughly tore into the same area that Varian had. Genn cut deep with his longsword through what his claws could not rend. Already in terrible pain from the first leg, the magnataur belatedly tried to reach back and grab the Gilneans.

With one final cut, Genn finished the tendon. He howled sharply, then jumped from the ruined appendage.

Warned by Genn, the rest of the worgen fled the wounded magnataur. As the last of them leapt to safety, the struggling giant, in the act of trying to seize the king of Gilneas, lost his balance as the second leg gave out.

With an almost mournful roar, the dominant bull tumbled onto his left side. His collision with the ground created a shock wave that tossed many of the combatants in the vicinity from their feet.

But it was not over yet. Varian cried out a wordless challenge and bounded onto the struggling behemoth. He ran toward the head even as worgen once more swarmed the rest of the body.

With fingers still bleeding from Varian’s earlier strike, the magnataur swatted at whatever worgen he could reach. Some of the most eager of the worgen fell prey to the swinging hand, but Varian dodged it, then raced up past the shoulder to the neck.

The fearsome visage twisted in his direction, the magnataur’s long, curving tusks sweeping toward Varian and nearly succeeding where the hand had failed. The baleful eyes glared at the puny human who had caused him so much pain. Varian felt the muscles leading to the arm move and knew that the wounded magnataur had come to realize that this was prey finally within easy reach.

With the hand rushing to him, Varian held Shalamayne downward with both hands and stepped off the neck.

As he dropped, he took the sword and jammed it into the soft part of the throat.

The fabled blade cut through as if the flesh there were water. The magnataur’s life fluids drenched Varian as he continued a drop slowed only by how long it took Shalamayne to cut through.

A great gurgle escaped the bull. The behemoth thrashed about, in his death throes threatening to do to Varian what he could not before.

A furred form seized Varian before the arm could crush him. He and his worgen rescuer rolled in a heap, Shalamayne flying a short distance away.

Varian picked himself up. He discovered only then that his rescuer was none other than Genn. The worgen leader lay stunned. Varian knelt by his side and discovered that Genn had struck his head hard. Blood matted the fur there.

Genn’s eyes opened. He stared up at Varian.

“Such fury! Small wonder you are Goldrinn’s chosen champion. . . . ” The worgen leader blinked, his humanity quite evident in his eyes despite his furred form. “I feared for a moment that we’d lose you due to your impetuousness.”

“Your people almost lost you instead.”

“A small price to pay. The worgen have found you. We have found our place through you.”

Varian looked for his sword. “Our place may be the grave. This battle isn’t over.”

Genn sought to rise, then winced and sat back again. He took a deep breath, then tried once more. This time, the worgen leader succeeded.

Varian retrieved Shalamayne, but as he looked up again, he saw something amidst the chaos of the battlefield that made him bare his teeth.

“Don’t follow me, Genn.”

“What—”

Not waiting around to explain, Varian charged back into the struggle. An orc saw Varian and foolishly tried to take him. The lord of Stormwind barely noticed as Shalamayne sank deep in the orc’s chest. A second warrior fell as quickly and just as unnoticed.

Varian only had interest in one opponent, the same one who had earlier hunted him with such obsession, but from whom the human had been separated by circumstance.

Garrosh Hellscream.

The battling armies once more obscured the warchief from Varian’s view, but Gorehowl’s shriek was unmistakable, even from a distance. Varian paused and listened again as the axe sang its song of death, then altered his path.

A horn blared from the Alliance side and suddenly there were lancers on nightsabers everywhere. Horde warriors scattered as the huge cats brought new death among them. One of the lancers came to the rescue of a worgen surrounded by enemies, the lance running through one as the nightsaber ripped apart two others. The worgen readily handled the rest.

A magnataur bellowed, his body almost literally covered with worgen. Several worked at the legs and, even as Varian passed them, one limb gave.

The worgen were everywhere in the battle, darting in and about and slashing with either weapon or claws as the need arose. Ghoulish Forsaken retreated in the face of a foe too swift for them, the undead having already seen several of their number ripped apart or cut to wriggling, useless pieces. Hardened tauren sought to take a stand, but their very agile foes more often than not got under their defenses, striking true and finally pushing the tauren back. The top half of a goblin machine spun around and around as its operator frantically tried to keep two worgen at bay. The Gilneans calmly waited until they had the measure of the mechanism’s movements, then one sprang past the whirling blades, landed behind the driver, and raked the goblin’s back with his claws.

A glaive flew past Varian, the rushing weapon followed by two more. Sentinels on foot now entered the thickest part of the struggle. Some continued to toss their blades over and over while others used the glaives in hand-to-hand combat. With them came Stormwind’s forces, who instantly surged toward where the worgen—and thus King Varian—fought. The outcome of the struggle was far from clear, save that now at least the Alliance had a chance.

Then lines began to re-form on the Horde side. Varian heard Gorehowl once more, this time exceedingly close by.

He picked up his pace, unaware that one of the mounted Sentinel officers saw him. Alerting another, the night elf had her force follow the king of Stormwind. Worgen also began to track behind Varian as he moved quickly across the field despite a path littered with bloody and mangled bodies from both sides.

Still ignorant of the charge he had begun leading, Varian closed on the area where he was certain that he would find Garrosh. Capture or slay the warchief, and the battle ended. That was all that mattered. . . .

A line of orcish archers suddenly rose up from hiding and fired at the oncoming enemy.

Somehow, Varian dodged those shafts that came near him. He had no notion as to what happened behind him. Some of those who followed perished, but others quickly replaced their numbers. There was a sense among the Alliance that a defining moment was upon them, that this charge led by the king of Stormwind would make or break the day.

But on the other side, the Horde was more than ready to meet this new challenge. The deadly flight of arrows preceded a rush of heavily armed and armored warriors both on foot and astride the great dire wolves.

Still paying no heed to those who followed him, Varian saw the enemy ranks as merely impediments. When the first dire wolf reached him, he used Shalamayne to slice through one eye and pierce the brain. As the animal fell forward, Varian stepped up atop its head and all but cut the orc rider in two. A blood elf who grabbed for the lord of Stormwind pulled back with his hand lost. Axes and blades tore at his garments and bloodied his body, but none were more than nuisances, and they slowed him not a bit.

And though he himself did not notice it, did not feel it, both those who followed and those who faced him thought that they saw in the dust and smoke swirling in his vicinity the darting form of a great wolf. Who first shouted the name was a question none could answer. The worgen assumed it was one of their own, for had they not been the first to recognize the king of Stormwind as the Ancient’s champion? The Sentinels believed it either the high priestess or her general, while those dwarves and humans who had accompanied the expedition from Darnassus thought someone of their ranks was responsible.

What mattered was that someone first shouted “Varian!” and then “Goldrinn!” and those names repeated over and over to become the new battle cry. It was a cry that reverberated through the Horde ranks and sent the first true hint of uncertainty through their minds. The victory should have been theirs long ago. The Alliance should have fallen. What was happening now was not how the magnificent plan had been supposed to play out.

And none knew the last more than Garrosh Hellscream. The future that he had envisioned coming to fruition once Ashenvale was in Horde hands now looked so very distant. His ultimate weapon, the crushing power of the magnataur, had now become a much-too-visible image of his master strategy gone awry.

Even as he thought that, another of the giants went crashing to the ground. Worgen swarmed over the fallen behemoth, seeking especially the throat.

One of the Kor’kron pushed close to Garrosh. “Warchief, you risk yourself here! We cannot lose you. . . .”

“Lose me?” Garrosh shoved the insolent guard aside. “I will not hide from battle!”

“But the Alliance—”

The warchief glared, causing the hardened guard to flinch. Garrosh roared another command, sending in reinforcements where the accursed worgen had weakened his forces.

The Alliance’s new battle cry pounded in his head. Garrosh could not make out exactly what the enemy called, but he could see how it stirred them to greater effort against his warriors. “What is that? What words do they shout?”

Another guard answered. “They cry the name of the human king . . . and with it, Goldrinn . . . their title for the great Lo’Gosh!”

“The wolf Ancient . . .” Garrosh’s gaze searched the struggle. “Lo’Gosh . . . and Varian Wrynn . . .”

And as he once more spoke the human’s name, the orc leader spotted the Alliance’s apparent champion among the enemy encroaching on his position . . . and Varian Wrynn spotted him.

In silent agreement, they pushed toward one another. Garrosh’s personal guard protested, but he slipped in among the other fighters and left his would-be protectors struggling to reach him.

Shalamayne moved as a blur, cutting and slaying any who stood in the king’s way. Brave though orcs, tauren, blood elves, and trolls might be, foolish they were not. There was better chance for glory—and life—against many others.

But one figure did come between the two, Varian his intended hunt, also. His impetuous thrust almost did what so many had failed to do. However, the cut in Varian’s arm was shallow.

Briln, the edge of his axe blade stained with the human’s blood, glared at Varian.

“My magnataur!” roared the former mariner bitterly. “My glory and honor! Look what you’ve done!”

His ferocity forced Varian into momentary retreat. Briln had not survived for so long without being skilled with the axe, as Haldrissa had discovered to her detriment. There were tricks that he could have even taught Garrosh—not that such a thing mattered at the moment to the distraught orc. The magnataur were to have been his way of redeeming himself for all the catastrophes of the journey, especially the lives lost. Now this human, this lone human, was undoing that.

Varian had no time for this insane orc. He knew that Garrosh was very close, even perhaps almost within striking range. Yet, the former mariner would not be denied.

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 plummeting 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. . . .”