“Those will have to come to their proper conclusions without our efforts. There is so much more at stake. I welcome Jarod back . . . but his life is his own to master, in the long run.”
They glanced back into the chamber. At that moment the newly returned Jarod rose again. Malfurion and Tyrande heard him exhale deeply as he gave his Shalasyr one last kiss.
“Let us hope Shandris and his sister see it that way,” the high priestess wryly returned under her breath as they moved to attend to their old friend. “Though I doubt they will.”
Most night elves of military status utilized the training areas in the Warrior’s Terrace to hone their skills. There they had the use of target ranges and dueling grounds. The night elves were respected by both their allies and enemies as strong and skilled fighters, especially General Shandris Feathermoon’s Sentinels.
But Maiev Shadowsong was no Sentinel and considered herself far more skilled and dedicated than any of them, including their commander. Indeed, in her opinion the Sentinels knew nothing about dedication . . . and sacrifice.
Her face was narrower than many night elves’, and weathered. Scars marked her face—scars from both battle and torture. She had been warrior, jailor, prisoner, executioner. Her eyes held a fatalistic gleam.
Her armor was more elaborate than that of a Sentinel, with a thick breastplate, heavy shoulderguards, and high metal boots, all of a dark silver-gray bordered by a golden bronze. Wicked gauntlets ending in claws covered both hands, and even the draping forest-green cloak was lined with sharp blades that were not merely for show. A face-obscuring helm lay to the side of where she trained, with it a jagged, round blade known as an umbra crescent.
There had been a title for what she had once been—what she still considered herself—though some no longer saw purpose in it. Those were the same people who did not sufficiently understand the dangers facing the night elf race, dangers against which the Sentinels were poorly equipped both physically and mentally. Fortunately, Maiev had found others who still saw as she did and so had begun recruiting and training the best of those to rebuild the elite force wiped out by Malfurion’s brother.
The elite force known as the Watchers.
For some ten millennia, Maiev had been a Watcher. Their leader—the warden, in fact. The Watchers, originally volunteers from the ranks of the Sisters of Elune and later also chosen from those outside the temple, had been charged with the daunting task of acting as jailors for the traitor Illidan Stormrage and, later, other monstrous criminals from not just the night elves but other races as well. As leader, Maiev had made Illidan her utmost priority . . . and utmost focus.
No, in Maiev’s view, the Watchers had been a far more dedicated force than even the Sentinels.
Maiev practiced her skills, not in the Warrior’s Terrace, but out in the forest beyond. There, she could unleash the energy ever pent-up inside her. This day she practiced with smaller blades—daggers—striking out at preselected targets while bounding through the area. One after another, the daggers sank deep into the centers of their targets, no matter at what angle Maiev threw them.
It was not by skill alone that her aim was so perfect, though. Incentive pushed her as much. In her mind, each target bore the visage of a male night elf whose eyes were covered by cloth, as if he were blind. Sometimes the details of the face changed, but it was ever recognizable in her thoughts. She knew that face better than her own, having stared at it so much. In fact, her current exercise was also a futile attempt to eradicate the memory.
But still she tried, slaying him again and again. That she had done so in truth did not matter. Whether as a cunning prisoner in the barrows or a demon seeking power over the world, Illidan Stormrage would forever be burned into Maiev’s very soul.
Drawing the last dagger, Maiev lunged under a branch. Alighting onto a lower one, she brought her hand back for throwing, then spun around to face the intruder she had felt coming up behind her. At the same time Maiev tossed the dagger up, catching it by the hilt as it came down.
The tip ended up touching the throat of another female. To her credit, the newcomer flinched only slightly. Maiev nodded her approval; Neva was her best student.
“Forgive this interruption,” Neva said calmly, eyes never going to the hand that held the dagger under her chin. “I would not have disobeyed your command if it were not important.”
Maiev removed the dagger. “I trust your judgment. You know me better than anyone.”
This straightforward comment elicited a brief but odd look from Neva.
Maiev’s brow arched. “Why are you here?”
“I was crossing through from the Temple Gardens when I saw the gathering. The archdruid Malfurion Stormrage was there.”
“Was he?” Maiev’s memories coursed back to much younger days, when she had been a senior priestess of Elune. There again she saw Illidan Stormrage, though as a younger, handsome, but haughty figure, next to his twin brother, the future archdruid.
“Yes . . . the archdruid had evidently arrived just a moment before I had. He stood only a few feet from where I did. He was staring at a male in a travel cloak. The male was carrying another, a female. She looked to be dying. . . .”
“Get to the point.”
The other female gave a slight nod. “The archdruid recognized the male. He whispered the name, which I was just barely able to hear.” Neva hesitated, then concluded, “It was your brother’s name.”
Maiev revealed no reaction. She simply stood there as still as a statue. After several seconds, she finally blinked; then, with deft ease, she spun and threw the blade at the final target. The strike was perfect.
“Jarod . . . ,” Maiev muttered.
“I am not mistaken, Warden.”
“I did not think you were. So my brother has come back.”
Neva bowed her head. “I had thought him long dead.”
“We were both mistaken, then.” Maiev retrieved her helmet. “He will be in or near the temple—probably in it.”
“You are going to visit him?”
“Not at the moment. I need to think—” Maiev suddenly paused. Her eyes swept over the trees to the region to her right. Neva followed her gaze but saw nothing.
“Never mind,” Maiev ordered her companion as the senior Watcher put the helmet on. “Let us go. I must see my dear long-lost sibling.”
“But you said you were not going to visit—”
Jarod’s sister looked at her companion with narrowed eyes. “I said I must see him.”
Neva nodded her understanding.
Without another word, Maiev bounded down through the branches toward Darnassus. The younger night elf leapt after. Despite millennia separating their ages, Neva found herself hard-pressed to keep up with her instructor.
He watched the night elves leap gracefully out of sight, moving with an inborn skill that few other races could match but which made him sniff in contempt. He had not meant to cross their path, but perhaps it had been for the best. While the news of which they had spoken did not outwardly seem of import, anything that in the least concerned Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage would be of interest to his own master. Information was always valuable, especially in these times.
With a slight growl, the figure leapt in the opposite direction. He moved through the foliage with as much skill and grace as the slimmer but taller night elves had. Perhaps more, even.
After all, they did not have long, long claws with which to better grasp a tree branch . . . or rend a foe, when necessary.
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.