“Take care of him!” she ordered two of the others. As they took control of Xanon, Haldrissa faced the rest. “It is worse than we had imagined! More mechanized goblin shredders than I had thought could exist! They are already ripping apart the forest over here. We can assume that they are doing the same elsewhere, I am sorry to say.”
“We should charge in and take care of those little vermin!” snarled one Sentinel. “We should be able to handle such scum!”
Some of the others issued their agreement by raising their glaives, but Haldrissa immediately cut off any notion of an attack. “There will be no suicidal attack! We ride back now! This information must be passed on to Darnassus!”
“And then we just wait?” blurted one of the others.
“Of course not! Enough questions!” To the two night elves handling Xanon, she commanded, “Secure him well! We will have to ride hard!” Haldrissa paused as she saw their faces.
“He is dead,” the nearest Sentinel informed her and the rest. “For some minutes. The wound to his head was too grave.” To emphasize her point, she tilted Xanon’s head until the party could see the blackening bruise and increased blood flow, something to which Haldrissa, caught up in the escape, had not been able to pay attention.
The commander scowled. Another death at the Horde’s hand. Though her body ached, her pulse pounded.
“They will pay. They will pay for all the deaths . . . including those of the forest.”
Haldrissa urged her mount on, the others following in her wake. She glanced behind her. The body of Xanon, secured well, rode with them—the dead rider very likely a harbinger of things to come, she knew.
8
Arrivals
Although there would be an official entrance by the various members of the Alliance once the summit had commenced, arrangements had been made for the representatives’ personal arrivals beforehand. The night elves had been willing to host everyone in the capital, but by majority vote from the others, it was agreed that the emissaries and a small personal escort would stay in Darnassus while the rest of their people remained aboard the various vessels. The full contingents would march in the procession opening the summit; then, after the ceremony, they would return to the ships until the gathering’s end.
The high priestess had finally seen the wisdom of the decision, though not for the reasons her guests had used. The more members of each nation staying in the capital during the delicate proceedings, the greater the chance of tempers flaring and incidents overtaking their goals. With each realm still reeling from the Cataclysm, the risk of that happening was very high already.
Theramore was the first member of the Alliance to reach Teldrassil. Tyrande and Malfurion met the key representative and his escort as they exited the portal into Darnassus.
“Well met, Archmage Tervosh,” the high priestess greeted.
The black-haired mage bowed his head to both. “In the name of Lady Jaina Proudmoore, ruler of the isle of Theramore, I thank you for your hospitality during this most significant of functions.”
“We are honored to have you here in her stead, though we hope that Lady Jaina is well.”
Tervosh smoothed his black and violet robes. As one of Jaina Proudmoore’s aides, he also wore a somewhat elaborate gold vest with ornamented shoulders. “With the troubles brewing all around us, she chose to stay in order to continue organizing Alliance forces. You can trust that she would rather be here, High Priestess.”
“Her martial knowledge has been invaluable during these dark days,” Malfurion put in.
“In that, at least, she takes after her father.” Tervosh said nothing more, the subject of Admiral Daelin Proudmoore a delicate one. His obsession with the orcs had led to his untimely death in battle against the half-breed Rexxar during the storming of Theramore’s keep. Rexxar, in whose veins ogre blood also flowed, had not wanted the admiral’s death, but Daelin had given them no choice. Admiral Proudmoore’s daughter still mourned him, even though his actions had forced her to side with the Horde over her own father.
The high priestess hesitated, then asked, “And how is Pained?”
Tervosh pursed his lips. “She performs her duties for Lady Jaina as stoically as ever. The great scar from her confrontation with dark magi is nothing compared to the scars left in her mind because of that event.” He shrugged. “But she will not accept any help. Her stubbornness has always been both a detriment and a saving grace.”
“I will continue to pray for her healing, both without and within.” Tyrande shook her head, then smiled once more. “But on to more immediate matters. You will wish to refresh yourselves.” She indicated one of her aides. “Please show the archmage and his escort to their quarters.”
Tervosh bowed again. “I look forward to the summit.”
As the emissary from Theramore departed, the high priestess murmured, “And there goes probably the easiest of those with whom we shall deal. Would that all the others could see matters as straightforward as Theramore.”
“They will see sense, Tyrande. They must.”
The archmage had barely left them when news came that the dwarven emissaries had arrived on the island. From all three clans.
“This can hardly be coincidence,” Tyrande declared as she and her mate, joined now by several priestesses, waited before the portal. “Could they have traveled together?”
“The Bronzebeards and the Wildhammers had agreed to, due to Rut’theran’s limited dock space, but I had not heard about the Dark Irons. Amazing to think that they managed to sail here with them aboard as well. If they did, I suspect that the clans stayed in separate parts of the ship throughout the entire journey and very likely even disembarked separately.”
“I would not have wanted to make that journey,” the high priestess returned with a shake of her head.
They waited for the three emissaries to come through the portal, but time went on and still nothing happened. The archdruid and Tyrande exchanged concerned glances.
“Perhaps I should go down—” But Malfurion got no further before the portal flared and the first of the dwarves entered the capital.
“Hail, Thargas Anvilmar!” Tyrande said, immediately recognizing the grizzled dwarf known as a hero among the Bronzebeards. Thargas had acted as representative during previous discussions between his people and Darnassus.
“Hail to ye, me lady,” the squat but muscular figure rumbled. Although he stood much shorter than either night elf, he was more than twice Malfurion’s width, and all of that muscle. “Fergive the delay! Bit o’ an argument over who went up first. . . .”
The dwarven race was in flux, the tensions among the clans of much concern even to Tyrande and her mate. Other than Stormwind, the dwarves as a whole had been one of the most questionable of the possible attendees. The night elves were pleased that they had arrived . . . but if it only meant that the emissaries would come to blows, then all would be for naught.
“How was it settled?” Not by axe, Tyrande hoped.
Thargas chuckled. “Wildhammer suggested we roll the bones! Best idea! We did that . . . an’ Bronzebeard won, o’ course!”
The high priestess and Malfurion allowed themselves smiles. Trust dwarves to choose such a basic path to solve their problem.
“We are pleased to see you,” the archdruid added. “Thank you for coming.”
“Ye’ve been strong allies. Bronzebeard wouldna turn its back on that. Now, the Dark Irons, maybe . . .”
Tyrande led the emissary and his band forward. “You must be hungry after your travels. These two will guide you to your chambers and to the meal we have arranged for you.”
“There be drink too?”
“Both night elven wine and dwarven ale.”