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.
5
Bitter Reunions
True to her promise, the high priestess arranged matters for Jarod Shadowsong. Shalasyr lay at rest in the temple in an area reserved for such sad tableaux, her body now garbed in the raiment of the Sisterhood. She had been placed on a marble platform with the sign of the goddess—the crescent moon—etched multiple times into each side. The light of Elune shone down upon her, and her face bore an expression of peace. Those who had known her came to give their respects, each going down on one knee, then murmuring a prayer for her spirit to the Mother Moon.
The temple never closed its doors to the faithful, although most of those coming to honor Shalasyr came during the evening. However, time meant nothing to Jarod, who ever leaned over his beloved, either praying to Elune or silently speaking to his mate. The travel cloak lay bunched up to the side, but otherwise he was clad in the same forest-green and brown garments in which he had arrived. His beard and hair were slightly unkempt; such mundane matters were of no interest to him at this time.
Generally, there were two priestesses in attendance for such occasions, but at the former captain’s request Tyrande had removed them. Although grateful for all that had been done for his mate, Jarod desired privacy when no other mourners were present.
Head resting upon his folded hands, he spoke again to Shalasyr, this time reminding her of when they had built their first dwelling together. It had been a simple one, designed to give them shelter while they made plans for something more permanent. The mistakes they had made in its creation had done more to bind them together.
Jarod looked up, well-honed instincts alerting him to the presence of another. He glanced over his shoulder at the entrance.
“My respects for your loss,” Shandris quietly said. “The Mother Moon guides her spirit now.”
The general of the Sentinels moved as smoothly as a nightsaber and, to Jarod, seemed much unchanged physically from when they had last met. She carried her helmet in the crook of her arm, which allowed him to study close her face. As usual, Shandris’s true emotions remained hidden, save for a brief flash of what he read as either anger or uncertainty.
Shandris had been adopted by Tyrande, but they looked enough alike in the face to have passed for true mother and child. However, the high priestess had a softness to her expression that Jarod had seldom seen on Shandris. The general was also clad very true to her nature, her sleek, violet armor covering most of her form. The armor had been designed as much for swift movement as protection; even the shoulderguards were set so that Shandris could raise a bow or sword at a moment’s notice without any hindrance. The helmet—which only covered the upper half of the face—had also been forged with those two thoughts in mind. It could be easily set atop or pulled off of the head without ever catching on the long, tapering ears of a night elf or, in Shandris’s case, tangling with her long, dark blue hair.
“Thank you.” As she strode toward him, Jarod straightened to better face her. Her somber expression matched well his own.
“I recall her,” the general continued, looking at the still figure. “She had much merit.”
“She had life. She breathed life. The world brightened wherever she went.”
Shandris turned more toward the body, in the process her expression becoming hidden from Jarod’s view. “You truly loved her.”
“Of course.”
“Then I envy her.”
He gaped. “Shandris—”
The female night elf looked back at him. Her eyes were moist, but the tears were clearly not entirely for the deceased. “I am sorry. I have been rude. You know that you have my deepest sympathies. To lose her so suddenly after so long . . . it is not right.”