Wolfheart

6 Storm at Sea

The storm struck suddenly, battering the ten great ships mere days from port. It quickly became one of the worst storms the orc captain could ever recall. Thunder crashed and lightning continuously lit up the sky. The rain came down in torrents and the sea rocked. Briln roared orders to the crew, trying to keep the flagship under control. If it looked as if he could not maintain command during the storm, then the entire fleet risked slipping into chaos as other captains turned to their own initiative. With the cargo they were carrying, such a choice would spell even greater disaster.

The ship leapt into the air as another huge wave rolled by. Briln gripped the rail as the vessel came down hard. Those who had never sailed the seas could not appreciate just how much like stone water could feel at such times. The entire ship shook, and the hull creaked ominously.

A scream from above made the fleet captain force his gaze into the downpour. He looked just in time to see one of the mariners who had been working on some of the snarled rigging fall into the sea. Briln grunted but did not call for a rescue. In this storm, the hapless mariner was already dead. The orc officer was more interested in getting the rest of his crew and his ship—all the ships—to safety. Briln had sworn an oath to the warchief that he was capable of fulfilling this mission.

A shout from one of the crew made the captain turn. The other orc pointed frantically toward one of the trailing vessels. Briln wiped the rain from his good eye and squinted. There was a glow rising from the ship in question.

Fire.

Such a blaze could have started by lightning. Yet, this fire already appeared too spread out and was confined to the deck for the most part. Generally, lightning caught the sails, rigging, or masts.

Thunder rumbled. Briln, caught up in the distant spectacle, all but ignored it . . . until it ended not by fading but rather by being accented by a ferocious and much-too-near roar.

He spun around and ran to the opposing rail. There, crashing through another humongous wave, the second ship in the fleet rocked wildly about in a manner that was contrary to the currents and wind. Something was shaking the ship from within its very hold.

The captain took up a spyglass that he always carried on him when aboard. Holding the copper tube, he focused it on the sister vessel, where oil lamps secured to the masts and other strategic areas gave enough illumination to reveal what was happening.

The captain of the second ship, a gruff mariner personally promoted by Briln, had his crew arming themselves with sea lances. Near the aft, three other orcs were lighting torches using oiled rags. Hardy warriors, they nonetheless looked very, very anxious.

Briln swore. He waved the spyglass in an attempt to get the attention of one of those aboard the other ship. No one noticed. The fire spreading over the more distant ship now made more sense. That crew had been trying to do the same as these mariners and had somehow lost control of the situation.

Thinking of the previous vessel, Briln turned the spyglass toward it.

To his shock, it was no longer in sight. Such a blaze should have still been evident . . . unless the ship had already sunk.

Cursing, Briln looked to his first mate. “A signal lamp! Hurry!”

But as he gave the order, the flagship shook as if it had struck a hard reef. Briln fell to the side. The first mate dropped to his knees. Another mariner dropped over the rail and into the voracious sea.

Another thump rattled the deck. Briln struggled to rise. “The storm’s woken all of them up! Forget the lamp! Have the sleep powder readied, and spread it both on some food and the points of four spears! I want that thing below quieted or we’ll be in as bad a shape as those other vessels!”

As the first mate and the others followed his orders, Briln returned his attention to the sister ship. Matters there were only worse. Why haven’t they quieted the beast? he wondered.

A quick scan of the deck revealed the answer. Blackened wreckage marked the area where the barrel with the herb powder used to keep the beasts sedated had been kept secure. Rain by itself could not have touched the tarp-covered container tucked under the overhang of the door to the captain’s cabin, but lightning could have—and had. The entire area had been blasted, and with it the only certain way to keep their savage cargo docile.

The flagship’s own thumping slowed. A desperate notion occurred to Briln. He raced over to the hold entrance just as the first mate emerged. The other orc looked exhausted but triumphant.

“He was just wakin’! We caught him in time—”

The captain cut him off. “Who’s the best shot?”

The first mate grinned. “That’d be me, Captain! You know that!”

“We’ve got a good amount of the powder left! Can you shoot a couple of sacks over to her?” Briln gestured at the other ship. “They’ve lost all their supply!”

“Aye!”

Another roar echoed from the direction of the other ship. Briln brought up the spyglass.

The orcs with the torches were racing toward the hold. There, several mariners with lances prepared to descend.

The deck behind them erupted.

A gasp escaped Briln. He had seen no lightning. What could have—?

As the shattered planks settled, the answer revealed itself. The silhouette of a huge hand briefly rose above the ruined deck, then sank back down. As that happened, the ship rocked back and forth even more violently.

Some of the crew hurried to the hole. As that happened, Briln’s second returned.

“Two pouches!” the other orc shouted over the storm. “Where?”

“Somewhere on the deck where they’ll see them! Just hurry!”

“Aye!” The first mate bound one tiny sack to an arrow, then readied the latter for firing. Even in such a storm, a skilled orc archer could be certain of hitting his target more often than not.

But before Briln’s second could let loose, the other ship rocked even more wildly. Several of the crew, focused on the hole in the deck, suddenly went stumbling toward the rails. Two fell over, and one only saved himself by grabbing hold at the last moment.

The first mate shifted, trying to compensate. With the other orcs being flung this way and that, there was now more of a risk of shooting one of them.

The second ship tilted again, nearly falling sideways due to the additional impetus of another wave. As the vessel righted, the archer finally fired.

Briln let out a lusty roar. The arrow landed true, about a yard from the gaping hole. One of the crew noticed it and ran to retrieve the pouch. It was clear that he had a fairly good idea what the flagship had just sent over.

“Quick! The other!” the captain commanded. One pouch likely had more than enough powder to quiet the beast, but a second would guarantee success.

The first mate raised his bow—

The side of the hull facing the flagship shattered. A fearsome hoofed leg shot out, then pulled back in.

The rough sea turned the damaged ship, bringing the new gap to the water. The sea flooded into the fractured hold.

“Forget the powder!” Briln roared.

He needed to say no more. Abandoning the effort, the first mate rushed to give the order to heave toward the floundering vessel.

A wave briefly righted the ship, but its cargo, obviously growing more enraged, lashed out once more. Planks splintered as the hoof kicked again. The hole nearly doubled in size.

When the ship listed this time, there was no doubt of its imminent fate. With water rushing in, the Horde vessel quickly sank. Within moments, the deck was at sea level.

Orcs leapt for the churning water, trying to reach the flagship. Several were immediately swept under by the waves and did not resurface.

Wild roars escaped the hold. The gargantuan hands ripped away at what remained of the deck. Yet, for all the creature’s brute strength, he could not climb free in time.

The deck sank below the water. The sea shoved the ship farther from the rest of the fleet. One by one, the lanterns were doused, leaving only a silhouette of the ill-fated vessel.

A final frustrated roar cut over the storm. The silhouette changed as something seemed to erupt from the sinking ship’s deck.

Briln grasped hold of the rail, the rescue attempt for the moment erased from his thoughts as the fear of a new threat to his own ship occurred to him. He envisioned the titanic creature wending his way closer. . . .

But with one last huge bubble of escaping air, the floundering ship went completely under. The last plunge happened so swiftly that the beast had no opportunity to react.

The flagship drew near two of the survivors. Briln doubted more than a handful would make it, if even that many. He mourned their brave deaths . . . then considered what the night’s events might mean. He had lost a fifth of his precious cargo.

“Eight should do,” the captain muttered. “Eight should surely do. . . .”

But that was up to the warchief. That was up to Garrosh.

Briln hoped for no more losses. Surely, if there were no more losses, then Garrosh would forgive him for this failure.

But if the warchief did find fault with him, Briln asked only that the great orc leader let him see the crushing of the Alliance in Ashenvale.

That would make the captain’s own death worth it all. . . .

There is a change in us, Malfurion noted as he strode through Darnassus. And not one for the better. . . .

The archdruid knew exactly when this undesired shift in the mood of the night elves had happened, and what had caused it. Shalasyr. They cannot forget Shalasyr. . . .

Night elves were used to death in battle or by accident. What they were not used to was the loss of a life due to infirmity tied to aging. Tyrande had spoken with Jarod and through him learned the extent of Shalasyr’s troubles.

The illness had not been the only trouble, only the final straw. Jarod and his mate had been suffering from a number of minor but increasingly consistent aches and pains that sounded all too familiar to Malfurion, whose shoulder suffered twinges even now.

He eyed those nearest his path as he crossed the gardens. A dour atmosphere pervaded them. Malfurion could imagine their thoughts; each wondered not only if this was the fate awaiting them but also just how imminent it might be.

And he was no better than they were.

There was no escaping the inevitable, but through the use of the Sisterhood, Tyrande was already trying to stem the rising fear. She also looked to the examples of the younger races—the humans, especially—for how to handle the aging and sickness. True, the humans, too, suffered great emotional distress from both, but they also had a resilience that in most cases salvaged them. At the moment, neither the archdruid nor his mate was certain that their own race as a whole would prove as equal to the tests.

Malfurion forced the situation from his thoughts. He had to concentrate on the summit. Preparations had at last been finalized, and the arrivals of the representatives were close at hand. Malfurion now had to concern himself with the specifics of what he hoped would be accomplished.

“Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage . . .”

It was next to impossible to come upon the archdruid without his noticing, but the speaker had done just that. Fortunately, Malfurion was not one of tender nerve. He simply turned and, to no surprise, found himself gazing down slightly at a human.

The man was in the prime of life, strong of jaw, and with narrow eyes. He was clad in loose, simple brown garments. Despite being unarmed, he bore a stance that marked him as a fighter.

Malfurion knew him. “Eadrik.”

Eadrik bowed low, his long, brown-black hair falling forward. “My lord Genn Greymane hoped to have a word with you, if you’ve time this day.”

The archdruid’s brow furrowed. “As a matter of fact, Eadrik, I should speak with him right now. Where is he?”

The human straightened. “I left him near the Warrior’s Terrace, by the path leading to our refuge.” Eadrik grimaced. “To be frank, Archdruid, I think he hoped you might do as you suggest. He knows time is short.”

“Then lead me.”

As Eadrik obeyed, Malfurion saw how the presence of this one human distracted the night elves in the vicinity almost as much as their concern over their aging did . . . despite the fact that humans and other members of the Alliance had had access to Darnassus since its founding. It was clear that Eadrik was recognized as one of Genn’s aides and, thus, also recognized for what else he was. For his part, the young human kept his gaze straight ahead, almost as if nothing else existed but the path. Malfurion knew that the truth was just the opposite; Eadrik was as uncomfortable as the citizens of Darnassus, if not more so.

Eadrik moved as silently as any night elf, no mean feat for a human. He said nothing as they exited the city, but Malfurion noted that he finally relaxed as they entered the forest. The archdruid found it fascinating that a human would be more relieved to be in the wilderness than in a city.

As ever, the trees welcomed the night elf’s presence. Branches gently swayed against the wind, and leaves rattled. To Eadrik, it was not noticeable. To Malfurion, it was a pleasure. He made a gesture that he knew the trees would sense, acknowledging their greetings.

Then the welcome gave way to something else. In the language of the trees, Malfurion heard, He waits . . . he waits behind Three-Knob Growth. . . .

All trees had names. Most were incomprehensible to even the archdruid. What the night elf heard was an approximate definition of what those names meant. Tree names were almost always physical descriptions of their characteristics, and no two trees to his knowledge had the same one.

Malfurion knew Three-Knob Growth, one of the first to rise in this part of the forest . . . so the tree had proudly informed him upon their first encounter some weeks earlier. He turned toward it just as Genn Greymane stepped out.

“Hail, King of Gilneas,” the archdruid solemnly declared.

“Gilneas . . . ,” murmured the brawny, dour figure. Genn Greymane resembled a bear, albeit an aging one. No handsome man, he yet had a commanding presence and eyes still sharp and quick for a human of his more mature age. Unlike the night elf, Genn sported a much shorter, clipped beard. He stood taller than Eadrik, which brought him slightly nearer to the night elf in stature.

“Gilneas . . . ,” the king repeated. “In name only, Archdruid.”

“For now!” Eadrik piped up.

“We shall see.” Glancing at the other human, Genn added, “And why is the archdruid here? I asked you to see about an audience with him, not drag him to me—”

Malfurion interjected before the misunderstanding could grow out of proportion. “I told your man to take me to you, Genn. Your request coincided with my need to talk with you. Following Eadrik back saved valuable time.”

“It’s about the summit, Archdruid.”

“Of course. Gilneas is one of the most prominent reasons I sought to bring it to fruition. Your people’s admission to the Alliance is—”

“Re-admission, you mean,” the king growled with much bitterness. “After I was foolish enough to think that Gilneas was best served taking matters into its own hands.”

“Genn! The curse was something beyond your control! You could not have—”

“It doesn’t matter!” the lord of Gilneas growled, for the moment sounding more like an animal than a man. He leaned into the archdruid, and although Malfurion was still taller, to the night elf it seemed that their gazes met evenly. Genn seemed bigger, wilder. “It doesn’t matter! We are and will always be cursed!”

Malfurion fought to take command of the conversation again. “We wanted to speak to one another about the gathering. The first emissaries will be arriving tomorrow.”

Genn deflated. “Yes. The summit. They’ll all have their chance to judge me for my foolish mistakes.”

“I have been in contact with several of them. They understand the necessities of the time. They understand that you regret all that happened. They also can appreciate what you and your people can offer.”

“And do they understand it’s a double-edged sword they’re offered, Archdruid?”

The night elf extended a comforting hand to the human’s shoulder. Genn accepted it without question. “You have gained far better control of it than you think. You offer nothing but advantage, Genn. At the very least, they will have to seriously consider that aspect.”

“Even Stormwind?”

“I have no answer there,” Malfurion admitted. “But I have great hope.” The archdruid leaned closer. “He is coming. That was what I especially wanted to tell you.”

“Stormwind is coming?” blurted Eadrik. “My lord! That means—”

“Exactly nothing,” the king of Gilneas responded at first. Still, his eyes shone with hope of his own. “No . . . perhaps it means much . . . if he and I can set aside our differences. I know that I’m more than willing.”

“Varian Wrynn is a wise man,” the archdruid pointed out. “Stormwind would not be what it is if he were not.”

Genn finally could not help smiling at the news. “As you say. This lightens my heart! There is a chance, after all. If he’s coming, he must be willing to let bygones be bygones. . . .”

Malfurion pulled back. “I need to return to dealing with the summit. I merely wanted to assure you that there is every reason to believe that Gilneas will be accepted into the Alliance. I want your promise that you will attend as previously stated and be willing to show your humility as well as your strength.”

“I’ll be doing my part, don’t you doubt it, Archdruid.” Genn offered his hand, which Malfurion shook. “There’s my promise again on all we agreed to. If there’s any hope of seeing our home again, it’s to get through this summit.”

“And I promise again to see that everyone understands the import of this . . . even Stormwind.”

Genn Greymane signaled to Eadrik, who slipped into the forest. The lord of Gilneas gave Malfurion one last grateful nod. “I know you’ll do all you can. It wouldn’t have gotten this far without you, Archdruid.” Genn gritted his teeth. “But from here on, you know it all lies in one man’s hands.”

“He will come to see things as they must be for all our sakes.”

“I believe that, but let us pray to your Elune just the same. I’ll take all the help we can get. . . . ” With that, the king slipped into the forest.

The archdruid stood there, momentarily caught up in his thoughts. His gaze fixed on the area into which Genn and Eadrik had departed.

A large, dark shape momentarily arose among the underbrush, then disappeared among the trees again. It was tall enough to be a man . . . but was not.

The sight, though expected, still jarred the night elf slightly. As he turned, he again silently swore to do everything he could to help the refugees from Gilneas, including ensure that they were welcomed back into the Alliance by everyone.

After all, they might never even have been cursed if not for Malfurion.