Wolfheart

4 The Message from Ashenvale

Haldrissa had returned to her headquarters after her inspection of the outposts with more than the loss of her eye causing her frustration. While all of the outposts had proven to be in top condition, some of the activity reports that she had received from the officers in charge did not settle well with her. Where in several places there should have been some nominal orc activity, nearly all had reported nothing whatsoever. And where there had generally been no activity, odd little occurrences—though nothing as drastic as what she and her retinue had encountered—had taken place. Reports of a few footprints here, a broken arrow with Horde markings found there, a vanishing of game in another location . . . by themselves they were hardly anything to think about, but, when all were added together, they hinted at some growing trouble.

The commander sat cross-legged on a woven grass mat in her quarters. To her right, a toppled mug and a small, drying pool of water marked an earlier, failed attempt to adjust to perception problems due to her impaired vision. Haldrissa was doing better now, but still there were moments when her fingers had to hesitate before she was certain she was reaching for a parchment correctly.

She stared at the array of reports from the various outposts, her remaining eye darting from one to the next. However, as Haldrissa looked at one to her farthest left, she suddenly realized that Denea stood waiting there.

Just for a brief moment Haldrissa noted what she knew to be impatience on her second’s part. That emotion quickly melted away, leaving only the steady expression of a Sentinel lieutenant.

How long Denea had been waiting, Haldrissa could not say. The commander tried not to think of what would have happened if it had been the middle of combat and, rather than Denea, it had been an orc standing in her blind spot. Haldrissa revealed no frustration with either her lapse or her second’s impatience as she rose to meet Denea’s eye.

“What is it?”

“You sent for me.”

Haldrissa had, but it had slipped her mind. Simply nodding, she said, “I have gone over all the reports. I believe it urgent we send warning to Darnassus. The orc incursion near the one outpost was the most intrusive, but by far not the only one.”

“They have pushed into the area before. You think this incident that important?”

“Important enough to send a message to General Shandris immediately. Have a hippogryph rider ready within a quarter hour.”

Denea saluted and left. Haldrissa looked over the reports one last time; then, taking quill to parchment, she wrote all she felt pertinent and how in her opinion it tied together. By the time she was done, Denea had returned.

“The rider is ready. I chose Aradria Cloudflyer.”

The commander nodded her approval. Aradria was an expert rider, perhaps the best in all Ashenvale.

Sealing the parchment into a small pouch, Haldrissa again rose. With Denea a step behind her, she strode to where the courier already waited upon a huge forest-green animal with the clawed forelegs and crested head of a bird of prey—a head also adorned with long, wicked antlers—and a body otherwise like the sleekest of stags. His wings were a brilliant orange, like a setting sun. The hippogryph’s eyes radiated fierce intelligence. These creatures were not property or pets but rather allies. Riders did not control so much as work in concert with them.

Aradria leaned down as the commander stepped close. She was even more wiry than Denea. On the other side of the saddle were strapped her glaive and a quiver full of arrows. Her bow was looped over her head and shoulder.

“No one sees this but the general,” Haldrissa ordered as she handed the pouch to the courier.

“None shall,” Aradria promised. She saluted Haldrissa as she straightened. The courier thrust the pouch into a larger one attached to the curved saddle on which she sat.

“Fly with all haste,” the commander continued. “Beware the sea.”

“Windstorm is the fastest we have here.” Aradria patted the hippogryph on the neck. The winged creature nodded, his eyes gleaming in anticipation. “No one will catch him.”

With that promise, she urged the magnificent mount to flight. The others stepped back as Windstorm spread his broad wings and readily rose into the air.

Watching the pair, Haldrissa felt a pang of jealousy. As commander, she rarely had the opportunity to ride such a mount.

“I want to double the patrols, Denea,” she said once the courier and the hippogryph had become a blur. “Daytime and night. Especially night.”

“The orcs would be better off trying to infiltrate during the day,” Denea pointed out, indicating the time when most of the night elves still slept.

“Which is why we need to pay special attention when it is night.”

Her second did not contest her judgment. Haldrissa dismissed Denea, then returned to her quarters. They were sparse, little more than the mat and the necessary tools needed for her reports and such. Another woven mat, this one longer and thicker, served as her bed. Unlike some officers, Haldrissa did not pamper herself. She slept as her soldiers slept.

It will not take her long, the senior officer thought. It will not take Aradria long to reach Darnassus, not by air. She was glad about that. General Shandris would see her concerns and move to address them.

Still, Haldrissa realized that there was yet need to build up the outposts beyond their current strength. As the weary commander lay down on her sleeping mat, she began calculating how to best rearrange her present level of troops. That further calmed her. Between her missive to the general and her own plans, the Horde was surely in for a dire surprise should it be planning a new attack. The orcs were nothing if not predictable in their overall methods.

Satisfied and eager to let rest ease some of the pain returning to her eye, Haldrissa finally slumbered. Ashenvale would soon be secure again. . . .

The courier grinned as she and the hippogryph soared above the trees. Already deep into night elf territory, they both knew that they could save time skimming above the forest. Aradria had promised Haldrissa that they would get the report to Darnassus as swiftly as possible, and she and Windstorm had every intention of fulfilling that promise. Besides, they had a reputation to keep among the other riders and mounts.

The hippogryph’s powerful wings beat hard. The miles vanished behind them. Aradria left it to her companion to judge where and when he would need to rest; experienced riders never assumed that they knew better than the hippogryphs themselves.

The cool wind felt bracing to the night elf, and she knew that it touched Windstorm the same way. Peering at the landscape below, Aradria made a judgment call as to a change in direction that might cut down their time even more. She tapped the hippogryph on the left side of his broad, muscular neck, using a short series of touches to communicate what she thought. Such a method was far better than trying to shout against the wind.

Without warning, the hippogryph rocked violently, his wings flapping in an awkward, jolting manner. As she clutched tight, the night elf glanced at one of the wings.

Two thick bolts had pierced it, right near the muscle. Blood stained the brilliant plumage and also sprinkled the treetops below.

Aradria looked at the other wing. There, a third bolt had likewise punctured the appendage, and more blood streaked across not only the feathers but the sky behind.

The shots were expert, so much so that the wounds kept the hippogryph from maintaining altitude. Windstorm’s talons and hooves raked against the trees as he struggled to stay aloft. Torn leaves and bits of branches assailed the courier as the mount’s battle against descent faltered more and more with each passing second.

“Ungh!” A stray branch as big as her arm hit the night elf in the chest. Aradria lost her breath, then her balance. She fell back.

Windstorm crashed among the trees. The collision was the final straw for the Sentinel, who tumbled off the saddle.

If not for the thickness of the forest canopy here, Aradria would have been dead. As it was, she slammed through one heavy branch after another, until the accumulation of debris falling with her created a barrier that put an end to her fall. She lay there, stunned, with her head and left arm hanging down.

The wounded hippogryph became tangled in a mass of trees just a short distance ahead. Instinct overwhelming thought, Windstorm twisted and turned in an attempt to free himself. The saddle, caught on some of the branches, held him fast for a moment, until brute fury enabled the mount to rip free of it. The saddle dropped several yards farther down the tree.

Aradria heard the hippogryph’s frustration and caught glimpses of his struggles as she pulled herself up to a sitting position. From her shoulder she removed the bow, broken in the fall. Scratched, bleeding, and with one smaller finger bent at an unlikely angle, the night elf nonetheless thought only about her companion and the pouch. Pausing just to reset the finger in order to better her grip, she moved nimbly toward Windstorm.

She had barely begun when the hippogryph, still turned awkwardly despite having freed himself from the saddle, broke through the stressed limbs holding him. The massive beast let out a squawk as he violently descended through one level of branches after another, finally vanishing from Aradria’s sight.

Her desperate gaze fixed on the saddle some distance below. Though she still wanted to help the hippogryph, Aradria knew that her duty was to retrieve the pouch. With one last glance in search of Windstorm, the night elf leapt toward the saddle.

The branches held her, but barely. Even those not directly near where the hippogryph had crashed had been damaged by the falling limbs. Aradria made a swift calculation as to which would best suit her, then jumped to it.

She landed just a few scant yards from the saddle. Only then did she see that the larger pouch was empty. The small one containing the missive now lay somewhere farther below, perhaps even on the ground.

Aradria retrieved her glaive, slinging it on her gauntlet. After a moment’s consideration, the Sentinel also took the quiver of arrows along.

From far below came Windstorm’s angry cry. The night elf began leaping down from branch to branch. At last she spotted a patch of ground . . . and the pouch.

“Praise Elune!” Aradria murmured. Ignoring the pain in her finger, she grasped another branch and descended farther.

An arrow shot past her ear.

She did not see the archer but estimated his position from the bolt’s flight. Aradria whipped the glaive free and threw it.

It cut through the remaining foliage and briefly vanished from sight.

A gruff voice roared in agony. Seconds later the glaive returned to the night elf’s waiting hand. The blades were stained with fresh blood.

Taking a deep breath, the courier dropped the last distance. She could still see the pouch. It leaned against the trunk of the very tree from which she had just descended. Aradria reached for it—

From around the trunk burst a tusked orc, his huge axe already raised high to cleave the night elf in two. His thick mane of hair, bound tight, swung wildly as he ran at her, and the grin spread across his wide face revealed that, while he still had tusks, several of his other teeth had been broken in past conflicts. The damage did more to enhance his already fearsome appearance.

The courier brought up the glaive just in time to deflect the strike. Her entire arm vibrated from the force of the muscular orc’s blow. Aradria gritted her teeth as she fought not to cede her position near the pouch.

The grinning orc slashed away at her again. Every bone in the already injured night elf’s body screamed, yet she held her place. Still, she knew that the impasse could not last: more orcs would surely join the fight.

When her foe raised his axe for his next swing, Aradria retreated a step. The orc’s grin widened as he took this action as evidence that the duel was tilting more in his favor.

Aradria threw the glaive with all her might. The distance was not much, but her determined effort gave the triple-bladed weapon the force it needed.

One curved blade buried itself deep in the orc’s chest.

The green-skinned warrior stumbled. Although he was not dead, the wound was a grave one. With his free hand, he tried to pull the glaive free.

The night elf barreled into him, pressing the glaive deeper as her opponent staggered back. At the same time she reached up to the quiver and grabbed one of the shafts.

Aradria shoved the arrow through the orc’s throat.

The orc let out a gurgling sound. Despite dying, he clutched the night elf tight. The two fell to the ground.

She struggled to free herself. Not far off, she heard movement that did not sound like a forest creature. Anticipating more orcs, the courier finally managed to shove the body away. Unfortunately, she could not immediately free the glaive.

A rustling of brush made her look over her left shoulder in time to see three more orcs racing toward her from behind the nearby trees. Aradria tugged hard, the glaive finally coming out with a grotesque slurping sound. She whirled to face the trio, already aware that she had little chance against them.

Then . . . two more orcs stepped into the area from the opposite direction, cutting off what little hope she had of still fleeing with the pouch. Aradria surreptitiously glanced at the object. There was still a chance to at least destroy the contents if she could buy herself a few moments.

With a brief murmured oath to Elune, the night elf charged the nearest three. Her audacity served her well: the orcs hesitated, all but certain that she had intended to go against the pair. Aradria threw the glaive as she lunged.

The spinning missile forced the trio to scatter. The glaive soared past the orcs, then arced back, but not to the night elf’s previous position. Rather, both it and she converged on the location where the pouch lay.

But she had underestimated the swiftness of at least one of the other two orcs. Even as Aradria caught the glaive, he reached the pouch. Clutching the prize in one hand, the brutish warrior turned to battle her.

The courier swung the glaive at him, then suddenly kicked. Although the orc outweighed her, the force was still enough to shove the air from his lungs. Aradria pressed her attack, hoping to take him down and retrieve the pouch.

Much to her dismay, the other nearby orc came between them. His intrusion enabled his comrade to recover, and both dueled with the tiring night elf.

Aradria knew that the other three had to be closing. She was trapped.

Suddenly a deep squawk shook the combatants. A huge form shot past the night elf. Mighty talons tore through the torso of one orc.

Though bleeding in many places and clearly favoring one front leg, Windstorm was yet a tremendous threat. The orcs could not get past his sharp beak. His body blocked them from reaching Aradria.

The night elf used his timely entrance to beat back her other two adversaries. She then took a quick look at the hippogryph, trying to estimate his condition. Windstorm could not fly—that was clear from his one badly drooping wing—but perhaps he could still carry her from the struggle.

First, though, she needed the pouch.

“Windstorm!” As the hippogryph responded, Aradria gestured at the orc with the stolen prize.

The huge beast might not be able to fly, but he could leap very well. Using his talons, he scattered the two orcs near him, then turned and made a tremendous jump over Aradria.

The other orcs backed away at his landing. Windstorm ignored the one without the pouch. The hippogryph snapped at the key warrior, but that orc refused to give up the pouch even in the face of such a threat. At the same time Aradria moved up, hoping to attack the orc while he was distracted by Windstorm.

Windstorm thrust his head forward, his beak opened wide.

A spear caught the hippogryph in the side of the chest. Windstorm let out a startled cry and teetered. In doing so, he collided with his rider, bowling her over.

The world spun as Aradria rolled. A horrific pain shot through her chest. She almost blacked out.

A nerve-wrenching keening cut briefly through the agony. Aradria heard a moist thwacking sound, then Windstorm’s shriek. A moment later the ground shook as something heavy and limp crashed next to her.

The pain consumed her . . . until finally there was nothing left.

One of the orcs with whom Aradria had been battling started to lean over the night elf’s still form. Blood seeped from a deep wound near the courier’s left lung, where one of the curved blades from her glaive had pierced her during her roll.

“Why bother?” another orc questioned. “The wound’s deep. She can’t be alive.”

“If she is,” rumbled a deeper voice, “she deserves a warrior’s death for such determination against impossible odds.”

A shadow passed the second orc, the shadow of a much brawnier warrior than he. One hand—brown rather than green—gripped an axe more suited for two hands in combat. The sharply curved axe head was massive, well worn, and permanently stained with old blood. One of its most distinctive features was the many small holes in the head near the handle.

Other orcs gathered in the area, their numbers totaling just over a dozen. Three bore injuries that indicated a previous encounter with the hippogryph.

The warrior who had retrieved the pouch presented it to the leader.

“I saw no breathing. She is dead. This was what she fought so hard for, great warchief. . . .”

The leader hooked the huge axe on his back, then took the pouch. Because he was a Mag’har orc, his skin was brown, not green. His jaw was broader than that of most orcs, and from it jutted a pair of thick tusks with points as sharp as daggers. Unlike the others in the party, he was bald. He wore shoulder armor fashioned in part from the skull of a huge predator that he himself had slain, and over each shoulder had also been set a massive, curved tusk. The last was in homage to his father, Grom, for they were those of the pit lord Mannoroth, the great demon his sire had slain. By killing Mannoroth, Grom had freed his people from the fiend’s blood-curse, which had made them servants of the monstrous Burning Legion.

Tearing open the small pouch with ease, he read the message. A single, satisfied grunt was his only initial reaction.

“The spirits have guided us. We were where we needed to be to catch this prey.” He crammed the parchment into a pouch at his belt. “Destiny is with us. All falls into place. The night elves react exactly as I said they would.”

“Garrosh Hellscream knows all!” declared the orc who had handed him the pouch. “He guides his enemies to their doom and laughs at their feeble attempts to keep their necks from his mighty axe, Gorehowl!”

“Gorehowl will taste much night elf blood soon. The Horde’s glory is eternal,” Garrosh replied, his tone filled with rising anticipation. “This is our land now. . . . ” He looked around. “So much timber. So much untouched ore. The Alliance was foolish not to use its bounty. We—we will build a city here to rival even Orgrimmar.”

The other orcs gave a lusty though low cheer. Although in the wilderness, they could still not trust that there might not be others who would hear them. None of the orcs feared battle, but this mission was of the greatest import to the plan, or else the warchief himself would not have chosen to lead it. The courier had been an exception: the scout who had spotted her in the distance had suspected from her route and pace that she surely carried something of importance, and had reported the sighting immediately. Garrosh had not hesitated for a moment before ordering his archers to bring down the hippogryph.

“I have seen all I need. We return now. The ships will soon arrive.” He grinned, already envisioning the carnage their contents would create. “My gift to the Alliance must be readied. . . .”

The rest of the band let loose with another low cheer. Garrosh pulled free Gorehowl and briefly waved it. The unsettling keening arose once more, then quieted as the warchief lowered his axe. Gripping the weapon in both hands, he then led his followers east.

Behind them, Aradria stirred, let out a brief moan . . . then grew still once more.