He heard Neva speak, but her words were lost as he threw himself after the spying figure. Whoever it was moved swiftly and surely between the trees. He remembered what had been mentioned about the worgen, whom he had yet to meet. This would not be the first time they had lurked around the area during troubling times.
Jarod tore through the forest, moving automatically. He was certain that he was on the path the figure had gone. All he had to do was keep to the right behind the next tree—
His body was wracked by agonizing pain, and he felt as if a hundred bolts of lightning had struck him simultaneously. Jarod shrieked and felt no disgrace in doing so. No one could suffer such torture and not react as he did.
He tumbled forward—or tried. Falling to the ground in some ways would have seemed at least a little relief. Jarod had the great desire to curl up in a ball and pray that the continuous shock would cease, but some force prevented him. It was as if a web held him in place to ensure that his suffering continued unabated.
Jarod tried to tear his arms free. If it had allowed him to escape, he would have at that moment gladly given up those arms. Anything to escape.
The hope for death began to stir within him, but then Shalasyr’s face appeared in his thoughts. She had always enjoyed life, even under the most primitive of circumstances. Jarod, who had never been able to forget the horrors of the War of the Ancients, had learned from her. She had drawn him back to the world in a way nothing else could.
And he knew that she wanted him to live, wanted him to go on, not follow her unless there was no other alternative. Feeling her love again gave Jarod new strength. The torture continued, but now he had something upon which to cling. With Shalasyr, there had always been hope. . . .
The unremitting shock ceased.
Jarod crumpled to the grassy earth at last. He welcomed the collision with the soft soil, the rattling of his bones far less painful than what he had been through. The cool surface felt good against his skin.
A hand gripped his left arm. The touch was initially enough to resurrect some traces of the monstrous pain. Jarod cringed, fearing the full force of it would return; but although the fingers held tight, the pain receded again, becoming nothing but memory.
“Can you understand me?” asked an unfamiliar male voice. “Can you?”
The former guard captain managed a croaking sound that the other apparently took as an affirmative. The figure moved Jarod to the side, finally resting him against a tree.
“I’m sorry,” his rescuer whispered. “I didn’t know that would happen. I didn’t realize that it was there.”
Jarod managed another croak. His vision was still clouded by tears. His companion could have been invisible for all he was able to make out of him.
He felt the hands stiffen as an unidentifiable sound in the distance reached them. Jarod’s rescuer suddenly released him. The night elf did not hear the other depart, but felt certain somehow that such was the case.
Jarod’s breathing returned to near normal. His vision remained teary, but shapes began to coalesce. Vaguely, Jarod finally registered that he had been caught in some insidious trap. So close to where Maiev and her Watchers met, he thought it was possible that it had been set by the assassins to catch one of them. After all, his sister was in charge of the investigation.
Barely a minute had passed when light footsteps alerted him to someone’s approach. Jarod did not think it his rescuer, and when he heard the intake of breath—a sign of the newcomer’s apparent astonishment at discovering him—he knew it to be female. The former captain could only assume it was Neva, who had finally managed to follow his trail.
“You live . . . ,” he heard the Watcher say.
“Of course he does,” responded another, stronger female voice that made Jarod look up. He saw a vague shape standing over him. “He is my brother, after all.”
14
The Worgen
More resembling a ghostly fleet worthy of the undead Forsaken, the eight remaining Horde ships at last reached Bilgewater Harbor, located off of Azshara, which lay east of greater Ashenvale. Captain Briln wasted no time disembarking once the goblins who ran the port had set everything in place. He had delivered what he could of his cargo and now was happy to be rid of it . . . even if that also meant that he would have to face the warchief over his failure.
Since his last visit here, the port had been built up considerably, and now covered the entire small island. The main keep rose high above the other structures and a thriving population—mostly goblins—scurried about as they dealt with not only the docking ships but also countless other Horde-related activities. At one of the other docks, a crane ending in a large hook lowered supplies into a warship.
A goblin operating a foul-smelling mechanism used for unloading cargo trundled by in the distance. As deadly as the shredders could be when turned on a foe, they paled in comparison to the natural fury of Briln’s cargo.
The first of the huge hold doors opened, and the crews began unloading the covered cages. None of those who had been part of the journey looked like the orcs that they had once been. Everyone was drawn, anxious.
From the docks there came some sniggering from a pair of goblins watching the activities. Growling, Briln turned on the short, wiry figures, towering over them.
“The warchief’s pets’re hungry after this journey! They could use a snack—or two. . . . ” As the goblins fell silent, he added, “Now, you can either help your lot take over control of the cages, or you can be part o’ what I feed them. . . .”
With great swallows and suddenly polite demeanors, the two goblins saluted the captain and hurried to obey.
Briln allowed himself a short chuckle before the seriousness of his own situation again arose to the forefront. He was more likely than the goblins to become food for the cargo.
He suddenly noticed a flurry of movement from the mainland. A fair-size party was approaching by boat, one that included at least half a dozen capable guards who could only be part of the warchief’s famed Kor’kron.
“Garrosh,” he whispered. Not for a moment did Briln think of seeking to avoid the encounter. His honor meant more than his life, and he would not be branded a coward in the last moments of it.
The crews and the dockworkers already had all but two of the cages settled in an open area reserved just for their arrival. Briln was proud of those who had served under him during the epic journey. He would commend them all before his execution.
Dust and bits of leaves decorated Garrosh and his retinue, a sign that they themselves had also but recently arrived in Azshara. The warchief had an expectant look on his face, but whether that boded good or ill for the captain, Briln could not say, and thus he did not raise his hopes.
Orcs and goblins slapped their right fists to the left sides of their chests as the Horde leader passed. Garrosh did not demand such signs of fealty, but was the type of commander who simply received them due to the immense respect and fear his followers had in him.
Briln did as the others and in addition kept his head low. Garrosh, should he desire it, could have that head immediately.
“Briln,” rumbled the warchief. “A long journey you’ve had.”
“A short one, when in service to the Horde and you,” the captain returned, daring to peer up under his thick brow. “And surely less dangerous than the trek from which my warchief’s obviously just come!”
“We do what we do for the greater cause.” Garrosh stared past him at the cages. “Eight. There were supposed to be more.”
“There were . . . troubles.”
“Storms?”
“Yes, and the unrest of the cargo. Much of the concoction meant to keep the beasts docile was lost, and so we could do only what we could do.” Even as he spoke, Briln felt his shame growing. His replies sounded so weak, he thought it a wonder Garrosh did not cut out his tongue to make him stop.