“We fought for our home!”
“You stood by while the queen’s counselor, Xavius, oversaw the creation of the portal that let the Legion into our world; you stood silent when Queen Azshara chose the demons over her own people; and you continue your practice of arcane magic, even though it is the same magic that drew the Legion to us. Even the millennia have not stripped the people’s memories of those final days. It was difficult enough even to gain your kind the right to come to Darnassus. . . .”
“We came here thanks to your promises, Archdruid! We came here with the assurance that we were to be a part of night elf society again, yet also with the understanding that we will maintain our own identity too! However, as you yourself so eagerly point out, we are still ostracized! We must be able to openly practice our arts; otherwise, that alone proves your promises and those of the high priestess amount to nothing!”
The archdruid stepped closer, only pausing when he and Var’dyn were within reach of one another. Malfurion’s gold eyes gleamed sharply. Some of the Highborne’s arrogance faltered.
“There is every intention of the Highborne becoming a part of our society again, but such things cannot and will not happen overnight,” Malfurion quietly but sternly replied. “This is a process that will have to play out over time . . . perhaps years. Patience is a virtue we must all nurture, Var’dyn. If we can, we will succeed. Mordent understands that.”
Var’dyn did not look convinced, but nodded. Malfurion turned to the rest of the assembled Highborne. “Go back to the others and tell them what I said. And tell them that the high priestess Tyrande and I keep our promises.”
The other spellcasters wasted no time in beginning their retreat. Even the Highborne greatly respected the power of the legendary archdruid.
Only Var’dyn remained behind. “I mean no disrespect, Archdruid. I am simply seeking the best for my own.”
“Mordent and I are aware of what you seek.” With that, Malfurion returned to the forest, not once looking back or speaking to Var’dyn.
The mage eyed the archdruid’s receding form, not stirring until Malfurion was long gone. A scowl spread across Var’dyn’s handsome face.
“We will be patient . . . to a point,” he muttered. “Only to a point.”
Still scowling, the Highborne followed after his companions. Caught up in his fury, he ignored his surroundings. To his kind, trees were just trees, the forest merely a gathering of trees. The undergrowth through which he pushed was only overgrown weeds that, if not for his hosts, he would have razed instantly in order to clear a proper path. The Highborne lived for their arcane arts; they were used to having the environment bow to them, not the other way around, as it was with those who had built Darnassus. Like many Highborne, Var’dyn respected only power. The archdruid and the high priestess were powerful; thus, Var’dyn bowed to them. The rest of Darnassus, however . . .
The mage’s foot shoved against something that momentarily caused him to stumble. Well used to the disorganized manner of the forest, Var’dyn kicked at the object without looking, then continued on through the underbrush. He had led his band out to this location due to its supposed remoteness, but otherwise had only contempt for it. He looked forward to returning to the relatively civilized settlement the Highborne had set up.
And so the hand that Var’dyn had kicked, the hand of the dead Highborne who had been but recently one of his band, lay, with its owner, for the time undiscovered.
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.