Wolfheart

2 Incursion

Moving against the slight breeze passing through the forest, the long, thick branches from the nearby trees stretched down. The leafy appendages moved with utmost purpose toward the bearded figure they surrounded. He stared up at the oncoming branches and did nothing . . . but smile.

Malfurion Stormrage stood silent as leaves from the first branches caressed his face. Even among those of his calling, he was unique. At first, it appeared that he was adorned with the marks of the great animals whose shapes those most versed in his calling could summon. Only closer inspection revealed that some of these attributes were a part of him, the results of his ties to Azeroth and the many years his spirit had spent in the Emerald Dream. While his dreamform had become more and more attuned to that other realm, his sleeping body—still bound to his spirit—had begun to take on elements of these powerful creatures. Thus, the edges of his arms grew into the expansive gray wings of the storm crow. The nightsaber, its bond especially close to those of Malfurion’s race, was marked by what were not boots but the archdruid’s very feet. They now mimicked the look of the feline’s mighty paws. In addition to all this, his kilt bore in front as decoration the curved teeth of the nightsaber, and his hands were clad in gloves ending in the claws of the bear.

One mark that had nothing to do with beasts and perhaps more with Malfurion in particular was the blue bolts of lightning that crossed his torso from shoulder to opposing side of the waist. Smaller, complementing bolts darted from his elbow down his forearm. Stormrage was not merely the archdruid’s surname; it was also a hint of the tremendous power at his command, power that he sought to use only when all other efforts failed.

The ends of the branches shifted his long green hair, but artfully avoided that which most made the proud-featured night elf stand out from his brethren. Magnificent antlers, more than a good two feet in length, sprouted from his forehead. They were a sign of his deep ties to Azeroth and his shan’do—his honored teacher—the demigod Cenarius, and also represented the form of the stag.

Some of the stronger branches shifted under his arms. Then, as gently as a parent lifting an infant, the branches took Malfurion up among the trees.

The archdruid opened his mind and touched the heart of Teldrassil. Malfurion studied its health and saw that there was no apparent taint left from the sinister grafting attached by the mad archdruid Fandral Staghelm. Malfurion gave thanks for that; he had been against the creation of the second World Tree, but it had become an integral part of night elf existence. Yet, that it had become so had been the opposite intention of Fandral, who had first proposed the tree in Malfurion’s absence. To the other archdruid, Teldrassil had been only a means to a monstrous end, which, thankfully, had been averted.

Despite the lack of any noticeable taint, Malfurion swore to keep monitoring the tree. There was still a pocket of the Nightmare remaining in the Emerald Dream, and as long as any trace of that darkness existed, renewed corruption threatened Teldrassil and, thus, the night elf race.

Still, satisfied as to the World Tree’s present condition, Malfurion took a moment to survey his surroundings. A moonwell—one of the sacred founts of water known for their mystical properties—stood not all that far from the archdruid. He had chosen the Oracle Glade northeast of the city for what his senses indicated was its unique tie to the gargantuan tree in which it was nestled. Here, the archdruid felt he could best meditate and, using his spirit—or dreamform—reach out to the Emerald Dream.

The druids still traveled with their dreamforms to the other realm, but did so with some new precautions. Malfurion had not taken long to return to that place, despite having been trapped there for years by the Nightmare Lord. He did not consider himself courageous for having made the choice; the archdruid hoped to further study the Emerald Dream for any changes he might have missed earlier . . . and also use this particular journey to clear his mind of certain thoughts.

As if to mock his hopes, a sharp twinge suddenly went through him. It was not the first he had felt of late, nor did he think it would be the last.

Mortality was beginning to catch up with him.

The archdruid had witnessed the aging of comrades belonging to other races, but to experience it was admittedly not so simple a thing, even if his race was still much longer-lived than humans or dwarves. Malfurion fought down a brief moment of petulance, of thinking that he was not supposed to grow old.

The twinge had disrupted his thoughts. Trying to restore his calm, Malfurion focused deep into Teldrassil’s being. He felt his center calming. Seeking Teldrassil’s touch to help him reach the point where he could separate his dreamform from his body had proven correct after all. His body now lay nestled in the boughs, protected by the trees that were in their way an extension of the larger one upon which they grew.

Malfurion’s dreamform rose above his still body. Ghostly and emerald in shading, it hovered for a moment—

Malfurion!

As if thrust by a terrible wind, the archdruid’s dreamform flew back into his mortal shell. He knew who reached out to him, for she had a unique link to him.

Tyrande? the archdruid immediately responded. At an unspoken request by Malfurion, the branches were already lowering him to the ground. Tyrande! What is it?

Too much to be said now! Please come!

The urgency in her tone was undeniable. The moment his feet touched the ground, Malfurion hurried on. But after a few steps he found the pace too slow. Concentrating, the archdruid leaned forward.

His bones made crackling sounds as they shifted, and his skin rippled and sprouted fur. The archdruid’s face extended, the nose and mouth becoming part of a wide muzzle adorned with long whiskers. Malfurion’s teeth grew and his eyes narrowed. His shape transformed, becoming a huge, dark cat akin to one of the saber-toothed felines the night elves used for mounts. Malfurion’s pace increased tenfold and more.

The sleek cat darted out of the glade. The short distance to Darnassus passed swiftly. Sentinels who saw him approaching wisely stepped aside, aware of who it was rushing to the city in such a form. The archdruid’s cat shape was a recognizable thing to the defenders of the city, who had witnessed its power in battle.

Much of the city was divided into what were called “terraces,” where elements of night elf civilization concentrated. The Warrior’s Terrace was already behind him, and that of the Craftsmen was already to his right. Malfurion scarcely noticed either, just as he paid little mind to the elegant and artistically formed gardens and lake that were the center of Darnassus. His focus was on the shining edifice to the south, the Temple of the Moon.

But something did suddenly intrude on his concentration, an unsettling gathering of night elves. Malfurion smelled their anxiety, and that stirred his other feline emotions. He bared his great saberlike teeth and dug harder at the ground with his sharp claws as he turned to find out what was the cause.

Even before he came to a halt, the archdruid had resumed his true form. The night elves nearest had already scattered from the cat’s path, and now they and others who had noticed Malfurion bowed in respect to the august figure.

However, Malfurion paid them no mind, for he now knew what had so caught the throng’s attention . . . and why from them there had radiated such a high level of anxiety.

The hooded figure stumbled toward the same destination in which the archdruid had been heading, but his efforts were slowed incredibly by the terrible burden in his arms. The shape under the other travel cloak was clearly female and also a night elf.

Malfurion could not make out the male’s visage, but the hood had slipped from the female’s. The slack mouth was a grim enough sign.

A Sentinel tried to give aid to the female’s companion, but the male shook the guard off. The Sentinel retreated with an odd respect in both her expression and stance.

The same Sentinel glanced beyond the stricken figure to Malfurion. With some relief, she started, “Archdruid! Praise Elune—”

“‘Archdruid’?” The hooded male gasped out the word, as if it meant all the world to him.

A sudden shock ran through Malfurion. He could not place the voice, but, even though it was clearly changed by stress and other factors, it was one he should have known very well.

Gingerly adjusting his precious burden, the male shifted enough to peer over his shoulder at Malfurion.

The agony that gripped the male had made some distinct changes in the face. However, the archdruid still immediately recognized the night elf before him even though it had been centuries since the latter had last been among their kind. Malfurion could scarcely believe his eyes; he had gradually come to the conclusion that accident or some other violent demise had taken the hooded figure long ago.

The name escaped as a whisper of disbelief. “Jarod Shadowsong . . .”

Haldrissa Woodshaper had been a Sentinel since nearly the creation of that army. Although she had been born some centuries before its general, Shandris, Haldrissa had recognized the skills in her leader and eagerly learned. She had thus risen up in the ranks, well earning her position as a commander.

Narrow of face and with a persistently wrinkled brow—as if she were always deep in thought—Haldrissa had just prior to the Cataclysm been promoted to overseeing night elf forces in Ashenvale. Although far from Teldrassil and Darnassus, Ashenvale, located in the northern half of the continent of Kalimdor and stretching across much of its width, was not only sacred to her people but of significance to the preservation of their civilization. The night elves and their allies carefully harvested only select areas of the vast forests, making certain not to disturb nature any more than necessary.

Haldrissa squinted as she peered into the forest ahead of her party. Like the others, she rode astride one of the muscular cats called nightsabers after their long, curved fangs. Both night elves and nightsabers were, as their names suggested, nocturnal creatures, but circumstance more and more demanded that they move about during the day too. Most of the other races with which they dealt were diurnal, day dwellers, which did not preclude their being active at night . . . which presented her with the most complicated and potentially deadly aspect of her role here.

There had been no sign of nearby activity by the Horde, but Haldrissa knew better than to trust the orcs and their allies to stay in the eastern side. Bad enough that they had a foothold in Ashenvale at all.

“What do you see, Xanon?” she asked of the male night elf to her left. He was not the most senior of her officers, but he was known for his sharp eyes, even among the Sentinels. “Anything amiss?”

Xanon leaned forward a moment, then replied, “All clear to me, Commander.”

No one else indicated otherwise. Haldrissa signaled the party to move on. The commander led a contingent of some fifty night elves on the way to inspect one of the foremost posts. Haldrissa made it a point to do regular inspections herself; nothing kept post commanders on their toes better than the knowledge that she would be checking on them.

The post was only another hour’s ride. The reason for the halt had been what thus far appeared to be a lapse on the part of the officer in charge. Haldrissa insisted that guards be set up to face not only the directions from which the Horde could be expected to attack, but also those from which it could not. If Haldrissa could imagine successfully sneaking past a post and either attacking it from behind or moving on to attack locations deeper within night elf territory, then surely the orcs’ new warchief could.

A short distance later, Haldrissa turned to Denea, her second-in-command. “I want two scouts to ride to the post, then report back . . . without being seen.”

Denea summoned the riders needed, then sent them off. Haldrissa watched the pair first become two blurs, then vanish into the distance. She hid a moment of frustration; her vision was not as sharp as it had been only a few months before. In fact, it seemed to have worsened in the past few days.

“Weapons at the ready,” she ordered the others. Denea, who already had her bow out, repeated the order.

They moved on, noticing nothing and growing more suspicious because of that. Haldrissa estimated the time the scouts would need to reach the post and get back to her, and knew that there was still quite a wait.

Thus it was that the growl of a nightsaber racing toward them only minutes later sent her and her fighters into preparations for immediate battle.

The beast was sorely wounded, arrows pin-cushioning its hide. That it had gotten this far was a credit to its stamina. Blood stained its claws and teeth, showing that it had not left the struggle without inflicting pain on its attackers as well.

And astride it, very dead, was one of the scouts.

Xanon let out an epithet and looked all for urging his cat forward. He was not the only one, either. Haldrissa waved the eager ones back, not that she intended to hold off pursuit. Denea already had the dying nightsaber beside hers. She looked over the rider and scowled.

“We will have to leave her here for the time being. We can retrieve her on the way back so that she can receive a proper burial.” Haldrissa nodded to her second. Denea and another Sentinel swiftly dismounted and removed the body from the suffering cat. Gently setting their comrade beside the nearest tree, they returned to the nightsaber.

The cat panted heavily. Up close, the intensity of the wounds was more evident. There was blood everywhere. The nightsaber peered up at Denea with eyes filled with pain. One of its sabers was broken.

The wounded mount coughed violently, throwing up more blood. It was clear that nothing could be done to save the beast. Drawing her dagger, Denea leaned down and murmured to the animal. The nightsaber gently licked the hand that held the weapon, then calmly closed its eyes in what was clearly expectation.

Gritting her teeth, Denea expertly slit its throat. The animal died instantly.

“Spread out!” Haldrissa ordered as her second-in-command mounted again. “Xanon . . . you take those up that way. Denea, take your group to the south. The rest, with me.”

Moments later the night elves cautiously moved into the area in question. Haldrissa’s nightsaber sniffed the air and snarled low. The commander quieted her beast with a touch of her hand to its head, then slowly reached for her bow.

An arrow struck the warrior beside her. The strike was a perfect one, piercing the throat.

It had also come from above.

Quickly nocking an arrow, Haldrissa raised her bow to fire. Before she could, though, two swiftly spinning glaives shot up in the direction from which the arrow had come. The arched, triple-bladed weapons cut a deadly swathe into the foliage.

A pained grunt escaped from the treetop. One of the glaives darted back out of the tree, returning to its wielder.

The other reappeared a second later—buried in the chest of an orc. The enemy archer dropped like a stone to the ground, his slashed body sprawling.

But even before the orc’s corpse had the opportunity to settle, from out of the forest ahead charged nearly a dozen of his fellows, many astride powerful black wolves. Axes, spears, and swords raised high, the orcs plunged toward Haldrissa’s group.

The night elves wasted no time in meeting the charge. Haldrissa fired once at the first orc approaching, but what should have been a clear shot ended up only piercing the shoulder. The wound was not enough to even slow the brawny orc, who then tried to bury his axe in the skull of her mount.

Another shot from above hit a nearby nightsaber in the neck. The animal stumbled, sending its rider flying forward. An opportunistic orc leapt from his wolf and swung at the fallen night elf. The Sentinel turned, trying to defend herself, but was too slow. The orc’s axe bit into her chest near the collarbone.

The wounded nightsaber sought to attack the orc, only to be confronted by the warrior’s wolf. The two great beasts tore into one another with fang and claw, each seeking an opening. The nightsaber had some advantage in size, but the wound slowed it.

Steering around the monstrous pair, Haldrissa fired at the orc. Up close, she could not miss. The force of the bolt as it sank into the orc’s chest sent the dying attacker flying back several feet.

Another arrow whistled past the commander’s ear. Cursing, Haldrissa fired back at where she thought it had originated. Her arrow evidently missed, but it forced the orc in the tree to move more into the open, where a bolt from the south finished him.

Waving her bow, Denea let out a triumphant cry, then led her group in against the orcs. At the same time Xanon’s surged in from the north. Steel met steel. Nightsabers clashed with wolves.

Denea had changed her bow for a glaive. She slashed through the throat of a slavering wolf as it seized her by the leg. Her sleek, raven-colored hair, bound in a tail, darted like a whip as she looked this way and that for her next foe.

The orcs fought savagely . . . even more savagely than Haldrissa had expected. They left themselves open at times, seeming to prefer simply to try to get to an enemy no matter what the risk. While by sheer force they kept the larger contingent of night elves momentarily at bay, the odds were clearly too great against them.

Could it be—? the commander started to realize, only to have to forgo completion of the thought as another mounted orc dove in at her. Haldrissa dropped her bow and brought up her glaive, using the nearest of the curved blades to deflect the axe. Her arm shook as the two weapons rang together.

The wolf dodged to the side of her nightsaber’s claws in order to give its rider a better opening. The commander’s cat twisted to protect Haldrissa, but the orc had already swung.

The foremost blade cracked under the force of the strike. The upper half flew into Haldrissa’s face. She felt stinging pain by her left eye, then her sight there vanished. A wetness spread over her left cheek, and she nearly passed out from shock.

A part of her mind screamed, The orc! Beware the orc!

One hand clutching her ruined eye, Haldrissa tried to focus on her foe. Through her tears, she made out his general shape. He was nearly upon her, even with the nightsaber now doing its best to fend off the wolf.

Haldrissa twisted the glaive in order to bring one of the remaining blades between her and where she thought the axe was. Her head pounded, and the outline of the orc faded.

She knew she was going to die.

But the killing blow never came. Instead, the nightsaber ceased its violent rocking, as if the battle between it and the wolf had come to a sudden conclusion.

“Commander!” someone shouted in her ear. She recognized Denea’s voice.

“The orc—”

“The orc is slain!” A slim hand seized her weapon arm. As Haldrissa blinked away tears from her remaining eye, Denea came into focus. “Be still, Commander! You need aid, quickly!”

“The battle—”

“Is over! The orcs are slain to a warrior, their wolves perishing with them!”

A prisoner would have been good to have, Haldrissa knew, but a capture could not always be accomplished in the midst of frenzied fighting. As another Sentinel came around her blind side and began working on her wound, Haldrissa finally managed to better focus on the situation. One thing immediately came to mind.

“The outpost . . . we must reach the outpost. . . .”

She was forced to wait while they finished with her eye, and even then Xanon suggested that they turn around. Haldrissa began to feel like an old grandparent rather than their commander, and grew angry. The other night elves acquiesced to her orders, and the party finally raced toward the outpost, all expecting the worst.

But as they neared the wooden structure, to their surprise, a pair of sentries stepped out from among the trees. They looked stunned by the party’s appearance, especially that of the commander, who now sported a long cloth over the damaged side of her face.

Before they could speak, Haldrissa quickly asked, “The outpost—all is well?”

They glanced at one another in some confusion, one finally replying, “Yes, Commander! It has been very quiet!”

“Were there other sentries posted in the trees behind us?”

“Two . . .”

There had been no sign of either the pair or the other scout Haldrissa had sent. She had no doubts as to their fate.

“A scouting force,” Denea declared to her. “They managed to maneuver around the outpost without being caught, but the missing sentries must have run across them.” A dark smile crossed her features. “Well, they will not be ferreting out any secrets to pass back to their warchief; we have seen to that and avenged our lost comrades as well!”

Xanon and the others seemed to agree with her, but Haldrissa remained silent. She thought of the fatalistic determination of the orcs as they had thrown themselves against impossible odds. Such an act was not extraordinary where orcs were concerned: they often reveled in showing their willingness to sacrifice themselves.

“But what were they sacrificing themselves for?” she murmured to herself.

“What did you say, Commander?” Denea asked.

The pain from her wound coursed through Haldrissa, forcing her to put a hand to her head. Still, the notion of what had truly happened burned deep. “Send word ahead to the outpost. Have them survey the area carefully—”

“You think there are more orcs?”

“No.” She wished she were wrong. That would help matters. They were too late, though. The attackers had done their part, giving their lives for the Horde. “No . . . by now they have slipped back through. . . .”

There had been forays by orcs in the past, but something about this particular one struck her as sinister. The Horde had never sent a party this deep in this region, and certainly not one of such size.

She would have to send word to the general as soon as possible. For months, Shandris and the high priestess had been awaiting some act by the Horde that hinted of a change in the delicate balance between the two factions. Haldrissa now believed she had witnessed that very act.

But what does this incursion augur? the wounded commander wondered anxiously.

She had no answer. Still, whatever form it would take, the one thing Haldrissa did know was that there would be much, much more blood than had been spilled this day. Much more.