"I am sure word has reached you that Thrall has departed—temporarily. And I am equally sure you know his mission."
Renferal frowned. 'Yes, we have heard. And we know who he has appointed in his stead."
"Rest assured that Thrall does not intend to be gone long and that he has asked Cairne to counsel young Hellscream," Hamuul said. 'You know that Thrall's wish is for peace."
"Is it? Truly?" Another night elf spoke up, anger in his voice. "Then why does he leave at all? And appoint Garrosh to rule in his absence? Garrosh, who has openly spoken against the treaty? Who we believe was behind the attack in the first place?"
Hamuul sighed. There had been no conclusive evidence one way or the other that Garrosh had instigated the brutal attacks on the Sentinels. But it was easy to believe those rumors.
"Thrall is in Nagrand to better understand what is wrong with the elements. Come now—we druids are closer to the natural world than most, though we are not shaman. I cannot believe that anyone present does not think this world is in pain."
That seemed to mollify the night elf contingent. "If Thrall can return quickly with anything that can help calm the elements—and if Garrosh can refrain from any more needless slaughter," said Renferal, "then perhaps good
can come of this."
"I will remind you that we do not know for certain that it was Garrosh's doing, and thanks to this gathering, good has already come," Hamuul said. "May peace begin here, now."
Various expressions flitted across the faces of those assembled: hope, worry, mistrust, fear, determination. Hamuul looked about and nodded. It was going as well as he had expected, though not as well as he could have
With careful deliberation, he reached into one of his bags and brought out a long, thin object wrapped in decorated leather. He lifted it high for a moment, then stood, placed it in the center of the circle, and unwrapped it.
"This is a ceremonial pipe," he said. "It is shared among the participants at the beginning of peace talks. For ages has this been the custom of my people. I brought this to my first meeting of the Cenarion Circle. Some here remember that meeting. I bring it again now, to formally show my desire for healing and unity."
Renferal watched closely, nodding her green head quietly. Then she reached in her own bags and brought forth a cup and a waterskin.
"It seems you and I are of the same mind," she said quietly, lifting the cup. It was a simple, ceramic goblet. It had been glazed blue, and runes were etched on it, but otherwise it was unadorned. Hamuul smiled softly. Long ago, she had brought this, as he had the pipe. "This cup is ancient. We do not know its original owner, but it has survived since the Sundering, passed down from hand to hand with love and care. The water is from the Temple of Elune. It is pure and delicious." She poured some water into the goblet reverently, then she, too, rose and set it in the center.
Hamuul nodded, pleased. The night elves were taking this meeting as seriously as the tauren were. He could feel the tension start to die, feel respect and hope start to replace resistance and antagonism.
He rose, bowed to Renferal, and bent to pick up the pipe. As he filled it with herbs, he began to speak.
"Once lit, the pipe will be passed around from person to person," he explained for the benefit of those younger night elf druids who had never seen the tauren ceremony before. "Please, when it reaches you, hold it for a moment. Think of what you wish to achieve here. Then bring it to—"
He froze.
The breeze had shifted, earning to his sensitive tauren nose a scent. Strong, familiar, not unpleasant at any other time, but he knew that now, at this delicate juncture, it could spell the death of everything.
"No! Hold!" cried Hamuul in the orc’s native tongue, but it was too late. Even before the words had left his mouth, the deadly arrows sang out on their lethal flight. Two night elves dropped, throats neatly pierced.
Cries of rage and alarm from tauren and night elf erupted. Renferal whirled for just an instant to affix Hamuul with a stare of fury and loathing that pierced his heart as surely as any spear.
"We came in good faith!" was all she said before she transformed into a cat and launched herself on the nearest ore, a huge, bald, snaggle - toothed warrior with a giant two - handed sword. He fell beneath her, his sword knocked from his hand and lying useless in the grass as her claws laid open his abdomen.
"Get the purple skins!" cackled their leader. Where had they come from? Why? Was this Garrosh's doing? It didn't matter. By accident or design, the peace conference had been destroyed beyond imagining. All that was left to Hamuul was to protect the three—no, he amended as another orc impaled Renferal with a polearm, pinning her to the earth—two night elf druids who still sunived.
Surrendering to his anger and pain, he shifted quickly into bear form, and lunged for the nearest orc in this barbaric war party. His fellow tauren did likewise, each of them changing into various bestial forms. The orс female, brandishing two shortswords, never stood a chance against Hamuul's bulk. Her cry was cut short as his weight crushed her ribcage. He wanted to clamp his massive jaws down on her throat, crunch her windpipe, taste the coppery flavor of her blood, but he restrained himself. He was better than they.
All around him the druids were shifting into various forms to defend themselves—storm crow, diving and slicing at the orcish faces with razor - sharp talons; cat, with teeth and claws to rend and tear; and bear, the strongest of the bestial forms. Blood spattered everywhere, and the scent of it drove Hamuul almost mad. He hung onto his sanity by the barest of threads, remembering why he had come here, how close they had been to the dream of peace a few short, violent, minutes ago.
"Hold, hold, these are tauren!" came a cry, piercing the red haze of battle. Summoning every bit of restraint he possessed, Hamuul leaped off the orc he was fighting and reverted to his true shape.
Belatedly he realized he had been injured; in bear form, he had not felt the wound. He pressed a hand to the gash in his side and murmured a healing spell, his eyes widening in horror as he assessed what had happened.
It seemed almost impossible to him, but all five night elves were slain and lay where they had fallen. Almost all the tauren had been wounded, and he grieved to see that one of them lay on the grass, an arrow in her eye, flies
already buzzing around her limp form.
He whirled on the orc who seemed to be the leader. "In the name of Cenarius, what have you done?"
The orc was pale green and seemed completely unperturbed by Hamuul's outburst. He merely shrugged. "We saw five of those filthy night elves running in those cat shapes and thought they might be attacking."
"Attacking? Five?"
The orc continued to regard him steadily and remained silent. How had they even known for certain they were druids and not just nightsabers? Hamuul wondered.
Slightly unnerved by the orс's sullen, silent stupidity, Hamuul's voice rose even more with outrage. "Who sent you? Was it Garrosh?"
The orc shrugged again. "Who is Garrosh?"
Impossible. Hamuul could not believe anyone could be so ignorant. Love him or loathe him, everyone knew Garrosh. The orc had to be toying with him for some reason.
"You have interrupted a secret and vital meeting that could have ensured the Horde the rights to harvest wood in Ashenvale without risking lives! I will personally report you to Cairne Bloodhoof and see that this incident is made public. I will not be responsible for another black mark on the Horde's honor. These elves, these druids," and he pointed a shaking finger at the cooling corpses, "came here at my request. They trusted I would keep them safe. And now our best hope for peace lies as dead as they do because you thought they were attacking. What is your name?"